


~ Magnificat of the Damned: Book I. Starfall ~

by Spiced_Wine



Series: The Arc Of Fire [1]
Category: The Silmarillion - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Death, Erotica, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-07
Updated: 2011-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:43:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 49
Words: 177,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tears unnumbered they would shed, yet still they would live, and love and defy Darkness.<br/>And they would die. Yet as Fëanor prophesied, their deeds would "be a matter of song until the last days of Arda."</p><p>The Arc of Fire, the blazing thread of forbidden love and desire which began with Fëanor and Fingolfin spanned three generations and thousands of years. I Will Lead and Thou Shalt Follow told of the birth of that passion. This story continues the Arc, telling of the ultimately doomed love between Fingon and Maedhros, Fingon's son Gil-galad and Tindómion, son of Maglor, in an Arda where the love of one's own gender was seen as an offense in the eyes of the the Valar – and punished by banishment into the Everlasting Dark.</p><p>"I, Tindómion Maglorion do so swear, sire." His voice shook a little. "My fealty and all my service is thine, Gil-galad of House Fingolfin. From now until the day of my death."</p><p>"Or mine," said Gil-galad, quite softly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beautiful, Beloved Betrayer

**Author's Note:**

> Silmarillion based. First Age to the Last Alliance.  
> Disclaimer: I merely borrow from the works of J.R.R. Tolkien.My stories are written purely for pleasure, and no money is made from them. However the original characters of Vanimórë Gorthaurion and Tindómion Maglorion, the Dark Prince AU of Tolkiens universe, and the plotlines are © to Sian Lloyd-Pennell 2004-2010 and may not be used, archived or reproduced without my permission. (Which I am pretty likely to give. d;-) )
> 
> I use the Sindarized names of the characters, for instance Maedhros, rather than Maitimo, Fingon rather than Findekáno, although the Quenya names will sometimes be used in conversation.

 

**Beautiful, Beloved Betrayer.**

  
_He is dead._   


_How could **I** not know? How could **I** not feel when the light was extinguished?_

_I cannot show my anguish, and there is not world enough to contain it. So I myself must contain it.  
He abandoned us. They will say that the Doom came down upon him. They will say his death is the justice of the Valar. They will say he deserved to die._

_They will say many things about him. Some of them will even be true. But they did not know him as I did. They did not step into his fire and rejoice in the burning. It is called a sin, and so it is. So it was. He made it a glory._

_My people look to me and they must see a prince, a leader. They must not see a man breaking under grief that will never be assuaged, waiting for the touch of the flame, the smile in a pair of eyes like no others in this world._

_They will say his acts were evil, that he defied the Valar. They will call him a madman and a murderer. _

_He was Fëanor._

_My half-brother._  
My lover.  
My beautiful, beloved betrayer. 

~ Fingon marched ahead of his host. Their strides were long and purposeful, their faces in the starlight glowed and their eyes were fierce. And fierce too, burned Fingon's heart with the bitterness of betrayal.

The years that he and Maedhros had loved so marvelously, so intensely had come to this: left stranded in Araman watching the ember glow in the east and knowing that the ships of the Teleri had gone up in flame. Abandoned. Forgotten?

Fingon hated what Maedhros had done, hated himself the more, for even betrayal could not quench the love he bore his cousin.

The terrible ice passage had given way to a flat, almost featureless tundra where pools of shallow water shone back at the sky and a chill wind blew from the east. Fingolfin's host turned south.

Turgon was blasted with grief at his wife's death, but Fingon had had to leave him to lead his own people. He had spoken quietly to his brother's companions, Glorfindel and Ecthelion, and they rode beside Turgon. Stars wheeled above, and there hung the Sickle, the mighty challenge to Morgoth and sign of his downfall.  
Fingon suddenly paused. His father's host had halted and Fingolfin flung up a hand. A strange light was growing on the horizon, illuminating the blue-black sky, and all fell silent, wondering what this could portend. Slowly the light grew and cries of wonder rippled through the host.

"Perhaps the Valar have not forsaken us," whispered some-one close to Fingon. The shadows were deep black, but the Elves mail gleamed eerily.

''It is beautiful,'' Fingon murmured.

''Come!'' His father cried, and the host marched on.

~~~

Fingon rose from sleep.  
His dreams were filled with dread and he clasped his right wrist, feeling a strange pain there. The same dream had assaulted him since setting foot on these Outer Lands. He saw Maedhros' face, stark with agony, heard his voice crying out, and would jerk awake, heart galloping in his ears. Maedhros...He must forget Maedhros, must hate him as deeply as he had loved him. What else was there? Each time he resolved this he swallowed a dreadful laugh, a mating of agony and fury. Love was not so easily relinquished. He wished it were.

Fingon was not the only one to suffer. Many had lost loved ones in the crossing of the ice, hearing them scream as they slipped into chasms of black water, over which the ice would clash like a trap.  
He and Turgon had thrown themselves down the slope after Elenwë, Fingon held by Glorfindel and Ecthelion as he gripped his brother's wrist. Turgon stretched for his wife, who floundered below them. His hand caught hers and then the ice beneath her tipped down and she fell, wet arm and wrist slipping through Turgon's fingers, sleeve tearing. Turgon had hurled himself after her, screaming her name, and was hauled back, fighting like a fury.

Fingon must remember the treachery of the Fëanorions, nothing else, not his first sight of Maedhros, riding into the great ward, serpentine red hair glowing, lips curled in a smile.

"I belong to thee, Maitimo Fëanárion!" mocked his passionate young voice down the bright years.

He shook his head and then stopped, staring. A strange grey light lay over everything. He could see faint colors, which had been blanched under the the pallor of the moon. A hand came down on his shoulder and his father said: "Something comes." Then, "Wake!" he cried and signaled to his herald to blow on his trumpet.

In the strange gloaming the host assembled warily and watched as color blossomed across the world. The trumpets of Fingolfin rang out to greet the dawn, and his blue and silver banners unfurled.

They marched on, unwearied, until before them rose the threefold peaks of Thangordrim, black fangs against a dreary sky, and an obliterating hatred breathed upon them. But fire raged in Fingolfin's eyes as his host crossed Dor Daedeloth, and coming under the shadows of the mountain, they hammered upon vast doors of the Hells of Iron.  
Far above, manacled to the rock, Maedhros heard them and cried out, but his voice was lost amid the clangor.  
No answer came back from Angband, and when the noise died away Fingolfin, having assessed its strength, drew back, heading to the Mountains of Shadow, a barrier between the Elves and Angband. There they might rest - and meet Fëanor and his treacherous sons.

If Fingon was mauled by betrayal, Fingolfin was no less so. Fingon saw the fury in his father's blue-silver eyes, and at times the fine mouth would tighten as if in pain.  
Reaching Mithrim, they saw the host of Fëanor encamped, and here they made ready for battle, but Maglor ordered that his people withdraw to the southern shore of the lake. In this place, at this time, he would not war with his kin, and he rode out and called in his rich voice, tempered with great sorrow, that Fëanor was dead, and Maedhros taken by Morgoth.

Fingolfin did not need telling. He had felt when his brother's fire, more perilous, more beautiful than anything in Aman, had passed from the world.

  
***

''Glorfindel?''

He looked up from polishing his sword and came to his feet.

''My friend?'' Turgon's face was frozen with grief, and anger spiked through Glorfindel again. They had trusted the Fëanorians to send the ships for them, and had watched the eastern sky burn red. But there was no returning to Aman. All of them had heard the Doom. The wrath of the Valar lay on the House of Fëanor, but they were not the only ones with blood on their hands.  
And they had seen Angband. Until then, they had not fully grasped what Morgoth was capable of. But seeing the precipice that rose above battlements, towers crowned by the fuming vents of Thangorodrim, feeling the hatred which shouted at them like a wall, they did finally comprehend. This was the fortress of the mightiest Power Arda had ever known, and it exuded malice. They had seen the bodies of loathsome creatures, and known that Fëanor's warriors had surely met them. They were black of skin with clawed hands and enfanged mouths gaping. If some-one had wished to create a hideous mockery of the Elves, these things would have been the result.

''Hast thou seen Fingon?'' Turgon asked as the noxious vapors from Thangorodrim's giant vents seeped past the tent flaps. ''He is not in his own camp. Nor with our father.''

Glorfindel shook his head. ''Not since since he spoke to Maglor.''

''The news of Maedhros,'' Turgon said. ''He tried to blame him and hate him.'' A sad smile touched his mouth.

''I know.'' Glorfindel felt so many fresh facets of pain, and all held an edge like a bitter blade.

_ We were like children,_ he had said to Ecthelion on their march from the Helcaraxë. _Here, we will drink the cup of love and hate to the bitterest dregs. _

Fruits of the Kinslaying. The Oath...

The strange mists caused the brazier to burn with an unhealthy greenish tinge. Glorfindel laid a hand on Turgon's arm.

''I will find Ecthelion. We will look for Fingon.''  
He buckled on his sword-belt and thrust the blade into its sheath, then walked out into the gloom, calling in his mind to his lover. The blue-white lamps of the Noldor gleamed through the murk, glossing the oily sheen on the lake. Glorfindel grimaced. There was a bitter tang to the water, like metal or ash.

_Could I have swayed him? _

_He made me burn, offered me a choice. I rejected him..._

  
***

  
__   
Tirion.   


  
"Well, well, a golden lion."

Glorfindel jerked upright, lips parting, and was thrust back by hands which were strong as reforged iron. He stared into eyes which seemed to open into a white and terrible inferno. Their very power of Fëanor's will held him motionless. Sleek black brows rose as those eyes moved over him.

"The time comes to an end, Laurëfindë," he said. "Swear fealty to me and follow me."

"My Lord...!" Glorfindel's voice was strengthless. He was overwhelmed. Fëanor was too potent, and that charisma had never been turned full on him before. He had only caught the flying edges of it. And that had been enough.

"My fealty is to Turgon, my lord." The heat, the desire in that gaze reached into him.

"Thou doth follow Turgon. Thou art not sworn to him; I know this!" Fëanor straddled him in one swift motion. "I have watched thee for a long time, Laurëfindë Los'lóriol, watched how thine eyes have devoured Ecthelion, yet thou art not lovers."

Glorfindel pushed himself up, met the hard body and was forced down, tried to sink further into the bed to retreat from the fire coming alive over him, within him. Fury gave his limbs strength, his blow caught Fëanor on the jaw.

"The Golden Flower should not be thine emblem." It was a deep growl and the return blow was a kiss. Glorfindel had kissed Ecthelion, but both drew back from more. They did not have secrets from one another, but the Laws were adamant that two males did not love. It frustrated him, sparring with Ecthelion often became rough on both sides as both sought to vent the passion that they would not give rein to.

But this kiss invaded his blood. It was delivered with the expertise of a craftsman and the power of a warrior, and he was drowning, being pushed under an ocean of fire which scalded, stopped his breath...

  
***

  
Glorfindel greeted Ecthelion with a strained smile.  
''Turgon searches for his brother; no-one has seen him since we camped. He is not with Fingolfin.'' He turned his head toward where the Fëanorians' had removed. That was Maglor's doing, surely, for he had seen the eagerness to clash on the faces of Caranthir, always swift of temper, and Celegorm and Curufin, hands on their sword-hilts. Maglor, whom ever acted as a bulwark to Maedhros, now lead the brothers, and had enforced his will.

''I saw Fingon's face after he spoke with Maglor,'' he said. _So many sorrows. They abandoned us. Yet treachery cannot kill love - does anything? Even death? _  
''He should be with his people. I wondered if he might have gone to speak with Maglor again. I told Turgon we would look for him.''

He thought of Angband and what dwelt within, the demons of fire spoken of by Maglor, the slain miscreatures they had seen...His mind spun and circled back to Fëanor. It seemed wrong, impossible that he was dead.

_ Fëanor..._

~~~

**Araman.**

  
Glorfindel turned at the regard on his back and saw Fëanor. In the mist his eyes burned like gems. There was madness in them, and bitterest grief.  
_ He loved his father_

_Come with me._

_Swear to me. _

Then they were breast to breast in the darkness. Heat surged from Fëanor's soul, a furious burning which challenged the cold.

"I cannot, my lord. I will not. I have sworn my service and that of my House to Turgon."

"To the Void with Turgon! I need those like thee with me, I have chosen thee !"

Their eyes met, Glorfindel's were wide and as he did not speak. Fëanor jerked him close, his kiss flame and fury, the icy air boiled away in its potency.

"Follow _ me_!"

"I _cannot _ uncle ! I fear what fresh doom thou wilt bring down on our people."  
Glorfindel's lips were swollen with the assault of that wonderful mouth. "And I love Ecthelion !"

He could not interpret the expression that Fëanor's beautiful face before he whirled away with a swirl of his long cloak.

"It took _me_ to wake thee !" He looked back over his shoulder. "Remember me. Remember what thou didst deny thyself. Remember this moment !"

Glorfindel's heart was charred at the edges, stained in blood and guilt, but he was cold when the fire was gone, cold as the somber sea.

Remember? Was he likely to forget, he thought bitterly. He would remember the touch of the Spirit of Fire all the Ages of the world.

And he wondered, for a long time at the white patterns burned into the palms of Fëanor's hands. The Silmarilli had burned him, but not harmed him. It was as if in hallowing them, Yavannah had tried to take from them the spirit which had created them.  
And could not. ~

~~~


	2. A Valiant Heart

 

 

 

~ Glorfindel and Ecthelion crossed the league between the two camps in silence. The tainted air swirled and parted about them.

At first, when they had crossed the Helcaraxë, Glorfindel had felt uplifted with anger against Fëanor, and conversely glad that they had not turned back. They would see Morgoth's fall and a great world would open to them and they would bestride it as its lords, partaking in every beauty and joy....  
_ As Fëanor purposed. _  
But then they had seen Angband. Not the Kinslaying, not the crossing of the ice had prepared them for the Great Dark in its stronghold.

_ What did he do, back in the darkness...have those abominations been here since the Quendi awoke? And what else?_

_Demons of Fire..._

The thought flashed past him in a pulse that was there, and gone, like his own heartbeat.

_ Demons of fire..._

Warriors were stationed at the margins of the Fëanorion encampment and stepped as they approached. In the gloom the steel of swords shone.

''Halt - come no further.''

''We come to have speech with Prince Maglor,'' Glorfindel said, his voice flat in the muffling air. ''Ecthelion of the Fountain and Glorfindel of the Golden Flower.''

"We see thee and know thee,'' came the reply. ''The princes take council together.''

''Send to him then, this is of great import. We will speak with Maglor alone.''

A silence fell as they measured one another with their eyes and then one of the guards slipped away. The lake water lapped mournfully on the shingle not far away. No bird called, it was as if the water were dead, silenced under a poisonous hand.

"Prince Maglor will speak with thee.''  
The returning warrior lead them through the neatly ranked tents and pavilions, past penned horses.  
_Our horses,_ Glorfindel thought with a flare of anger. _They even stole our horses..._ He clenched his hands, wrestling down the anger which simmered through all the Noldor.

Braziers were set about the great pavilion. A guard threw back the flaps and held them as Glorfindel and Ecthelion walked in. Another brazier burned here, of beaten copper, smelling of sweet herbs.

There were three men within the main space, and Glorfindel inclined his head to Celegorm and Curufin, who glared at him.  
Maglor said: "Leave us."

The brothers brushed past haughtily. Maglor looked at Glorfindel for a moment in silence. His face was white, his hair disordered, as if he had run his fingers through it in fretting. The brazier's light cast the long sweep of his lashes like shadow over his cheeks as he dropped his eyes.

''I can say nothing...nothing will suffice, will it?'' He seemed to speak to himself, before he looked up again drawing a breath and there were shards of shattered glory in his eyes like fragments of crystal.

Glorfindel said, rescuing him from the morass of his emotions: ''Maglor, Turgon seeks for Fingon. He is missing. We heard him speak to thee. He is not here, then?''

Maglor's brows winged together in a frown. ''He did not come here, no. I have not seen him.''

''Might he have gone forth to seek for Maedhros?''

Maglor made a sound midpoint between a choke and a stifled laugh, and dropped his head in his hands.

''Thou hast seen where my brother is held?'' At their nods, he rose and turned away. ''Those creatures whom attacked us, ravening after out blood, the demons of fire who...who...slew father...'' His voice broke. ''That is where they dwell. That is where Maedhros is held. And Fingon, thou dost think, would go there? After what we did? ''

It was drawn out now, the foul deed laid between them. He said, in self loathing: ''Knowest thou this: Maedhros asked whom father would send back, once we reached this shore. Whom first would return to us - Fingon, he asked?.'' His slender fingers plucked at the brooch which pinned his cloak, a harp overlaying the fire-flower of the House of Fëanor.  
"I would have wagered my life that he wanted to bring us all across."

Glorfindel felt his cheeks grow warm.  
"He was grieving, Maglor, and mad..." _ He was enraged at Fingolfin's dissent. What if I had gone? He might have left them anyway. But I will never know._

"_None and none,_ father told him. And we said naught, save Maedhros only. Father struck him. He would have no part in what we did..." His gaze had been other-where, now it came back as he looked at the others. ''Fingon could not know that. Yet thou doth believe he would search for Maedhros?''

Glorfindel felt his breath go out in a small hiss. ''I saw Fingon's face, bruised with betrayal and by death.'' Maglor flinched and turned his head aside as Glorfindel went on: ''I would search for the one I loved.''

''Even after such a betrayal?''

''Even so.''

A frail flame of hope leapt in Maglor's eyes.  
''How can he go there? He will be slain as our father was...Maedhros laid a command on me not to go after him if he were betrayed, to hold our brothers together, never to deal with Morgoth and I swore. I _ swore _ and it breaks me apart...!''

''I know, and I agree with his order. Thou must be here, there would have been greater bloodshed hadst thou not pulled thy people back, and come forth to speak with us. And I think,'' Glorfindel continued. ''We will find, here, that love is stronger even than death.''

Maglor said, his voice stark: "I already know it is."

***

He could not say it had been a conscious decision. He knew his people all needed him, He knew, but his duties vanished in the scalding flood of terror and grief he felt when Maglor had told them of Maedhros' capture.

Crossing the Ice, Fingon had desired hate to replace love. It would be so much easier if he hated, seeing Turgon's wild grief for Elenwë. All through that bitter journey, he tried to hammer love and hurt into the steel of hatred.

If only it were so easy.

He felt wounded to his soul, enraged by the deaths of their people – and he could not hate his kinsman, his lover.

As if watching his own actions from a distance, he saw himself prepare, arm himself, and then, using the gloom which had poured down from Thangorodrim, he slipped from his tent and vanished in the mists. The leagues rolled under his running feet, the acrid air caught in his lungs, and tasted foul. Visibility was was poor, the sun and moon alike concealed behind clouds.

He was disturbed by the silence of the lands, but he held his course. He knew his destination, had seen the massive battlements below the precipice, the towering three peaks.  
_Maedhros, thou wert there, how did I not know?_

He climbed steep slopes of scree, ashen, dusty, desolate, without one growing thing to give any hope. Nothing moved, none of those creatures whose twisted corpses they had looked on in disgust.

_Nothing lives...what has Morgoth done here? _

A bitter wind swirled around him as if to mock his thoughts. The towers above him were half buried in the fogs which leaked from their vents.

_It is as if he wishes to poison all Arda. Maedhros - how long has thou been here? Where art thou? _

If he were dead... _No!_ His mind slammed up against a barrier, his eyes shone with denial.  
_He is not gone! So much fire! (Oh, but his father had fire and he is dead!) _

He seemed to hear in his mind, a mocking, terrible laughter, like the slither of rocks falling into a lightless pit. His eyes narrowed.

_ Thou art not master of all, Bauglir, and never of **us! ** _

What would Morgoth have done to Maedhros? No, do not think of that, not yet...

He closed his eyes a moment against the flare of hot fury in his mind.

_ I would die rather than have him suffer, but Eru, I want to find him alive... _

A huge, outflung buttress of grey stone intruded itself into his path and he edged around it. He found his hands sliding to the cover of his travelling harp, and loosing the leather strings, which glinted sullenly in the dull air. His fingers strayed into a tune made when there was still Light over Valinor. The sound, in that place, was almost shocking, like the fall of sweet rain onto a land parched since the making of Arda. For a moment, his throat closed with grief, then his eyes burned incandescent. He flung his love forth into the acrid silence, and his voice rose through air which attempted to stifle it. And yet he sang, his voice echoing back from the stone. ~

***

~ The pain screamed again. It was all of him. It was the most vital part of him now. He was a thing fashioned of agony.

He could not feel his shackled hand. The nerves and tendons had been cut long ago. It was a dead thing that served only to keep him bound here, on this precipice. Blackness, welcome as a lover's kiss, swept over him at times, only for the pain to jolt him back into the nightmare.

Tauntingly – for Morgoth was good at such torments – there was a ledge below him, scarcely inches under his feet, but he could not reach it. He had tried, and almost dislocated his shoulder in the attempt.

_ I am dying... the oath unfulfilled and darkness will take my soul forever, because I failed. Father...! _

But his father was gone too, dead, slain by creatures of dark fire. He he had fought until their whips enwrapped him, and dying, he had compelled them to hold to the oath. And they had sworn – again – and then watched in horror and overwhelming grief as his body was consumed and ash blew away on the wind.

_Eru, have mercy. Let me die. _

Even as he cried out, he felt shame at longing for death, but he was mad with agony now.  
Darkness swallowed him again and if he could he would have sobbed with relief.

_Harping....Maglor playing the song he had composed for his eldest brother and Fingon. Light over Tirion. A wide, pillared room. The sound of soft laughter. Fingon looked up at him, star-colored eyes filled with love. Music. Beauty..._

He cried out as consciousness smashed brutally back. He thought he could still hear the music, a voice, Fingon's voice joined to the melody, but that was madness, or perhaps a gift from the One before he died. He set his teeth, panting with the effort to remain silent, to listen. He raised his head, forced air deeper into his cramped lungs and joined the song, his voice faltering.

The music faded.

_Now it ends... _

***

The last echoes lingered among the stones, whispering back at him...

_ He burned in me, he always did, and ever will. _

The rock was changing his words, tangling them, giving them back to him altered, as if even that unliving stuff would taunt him...

There was a crashing spatter of notes as he dropped the harp, plunging around the sharp edge of the buttress...

_That is not my voice...! _

He looked up. And time stopped. What he saw held him like a moth pinned on a pane of glass.

A body was hanging from the precipitous rock-face high above. Fingon's eyes, burned wide, found every mark upon it with horror. Dried blood marked a skin once pale as marble, now darkened as if he had been held too close to a forge fire, whip marks showed blood and bruising from shoulders to calves. The flaunting mane of hair was shorn, but what brought the greatest shock to Fingon was how his cousin was secured by a manacle driven into the stone which gripped his right wrist. Below his feet, but too far for him to reach, was a ledge which would have eased that unbearable pain.

He thought he had felt hatred for Maedhros when the Fëanorions' had stranded them in Araman. He had tried to hate, but that feeling was milk-mild compared to the loathing that sluiced through him now. He suddenly understood how terrible could be a Power that desired to destroy beauty, render it broken and smashed and obliterated.

Desperately he blinked to clear vision made white by rage. A name made raw by anguish tore from his throat. ''_Maedhros!_''

He flung himself at the cliff face. It was sheer, without hand or foothold and his own momentum threw him back.

_...kill me..._

Fingon heard himself screaming voicelessly in his own mind.

_ Do not ask that of me! I cannot! _ Tears burned down his face as his eyes clung to those high above, as if no space separated them at all. A terrible, deadly calm came over him as he forced himself to see, to feel the pain Maedhros endured.

He could not climb. The wall before him was slippery as polished marble, and he could not just stand there, offering empty comfort, seeing the agony in those silver eyes.

His hand reached over his shoulder to his bow. He bent it and nocked the string, reached for an arrow, all without thinking. His face was white as if shaped out of a stone far purer than those around him.

''_Naltanár_**....'' He thought of the dreadful Oath. Would Maedhros, so bright, so beautiful, be lost to Nothing, when his soul fled his body?

_He is dying. I feel it. It is a wonder he has lived so long... but I can make it swifter, merciful. An act of love. Eru, whatever the oath, let me find him again! Do not let his soul pass even out of Time! _

He fitted the arrow, and raised it, unwavering, to center on Maitimo's heart, and uttered a prayer as he drew the string to full tension.

''Farewell, best beloved,'' he whispered.

A great downdraft of air slammed against him, swirling grit and dust whipped him as the vast golden-feathered back of an eagle glided past and landed, wings still outstretched for balance.  
He took one flying leap onto the broad back and felt the surge as the great bird lifted itself, circling out and then back toward the precipice. Without thinking, Fingon jumped, landing cat-footed on the ledge which Maedhros' feet could not reach.

He set one shoulder under his cousin's, trying not to hurt him more. Roughly sheared ends of red hair brushed his face and somehow that was a fresh hurt to Fingon, something petty and belittling, yet it only revealed all the sculpted beauty of Maedhros' features. He longed to hold him close, tend his wounds, but his eyes rose to the captured wrist seeing the immense spikes which hammered the manacles into the rock, the gleam of bone through torn flesh.

"I am here.''

Part of his mind was still screaming in overwhelming rage.

_How can I release him? Give me strength! His hand...!_

Blood made his fingers slick, and he could gain no purchase on the iron spike which drove deep into the rock. He cursed. Such fine hands Maedhros had, he thought in a strange, wild moment, long, tapering fingers, which could hold the hilt of his sword, smooth a rousing falcon, his own responsive flesh. That captive one, from it's color only served to hold him to the rock as a tether.

An cry of wrath echoed from the stone as he brought the bitter edge of his sword down upon the wrist above the shackle. He felt Maedhros slump against him. The great eagle, turning, called into his mind, gliding beneath them, and holding Maedhros close, Fingon stepped down.

''I have thee,'' he whispered, although the wind took his words. He was unsure if everything he said or thought was in his mind, or spoken aloud: curses against Morgoth, anguish for his cousin.

His arms locked about Maedhros as the fume parted before them, and he realized the fogs were thinning, the sun's fiery face peering through the greyness.

Thorondor sped south, away from the Ered Engrin, but Fingon could see nothing below him until, shockingly, a great spire of stone flashed beneath and he knew it must surely be a peak of the mountain range east of the lake. The eagle was indeed flying with the speed of the wind.

''Maedhros, stay with us! Stay with _me_!'' he commanded. _ Stay with me!_

Like dusty drapes, the mists over Mithrim were lifting. He caught glimpses of the bright pavilions, the sheen of water as Thorondor descended. There was a confusion of clear voices raised in shock and awe, as Elves came running. He raised his head and cried,  
''Maglor!''

Alerted by the eagle's arrival, Maglor had already come from his tent and sprinted around the shore of the lake, his brothers at his back. Swinging one leg over the golden feathers, Fingon felt firm, gentle hands aid Maedhros to the ground, but he kept his own arms about him.

''Bring a litter!'' Maglor threw over his shoulder, as he knelt beside his brother his face white, relief and shock starkly painted over it.

''Ah, Maedhros!'' He laid a hand on the shorn hair, eyes flashing over the marks of torment, lingering on his severed hand. His eyes rose questioningly to Fingon's, even as Caranthir and the others came with a hastily assembled litter.

''Take him to his tent!'' Fingon strode beside it as Maedhros was carried and the litter taken within the shade of his pavilion.

''Heat wine and water and bring it, bring unguents and bandages!'' Maglor ordered one of the warriors. ''We will tend to him, now go. Fingon, please remain.''

''I am not leaving.'' He knelt, then the steel wavered as he said: ''I had to cut off his hand... I could release him no other way.''

Together, in wordless gentleness they bathed Maedhros' body. Elves skilled in healing entered to cleanse and bind the hand, and gave him wine steeped with herbs which he swallowed, although his eyes were still closed, pale shells fringed by dark lashes.

"It was the only thing that could be done," one of the Elves spoke as he deftly wrapped the stump. "He will need water, broth later, watered wine, as much to drink as he will take."

Maglor nodded. "I thank thee."

Alone, they covered him with soft blankets and Maglor sat back on his heels, drew his hands over his eyes.

''Glorfindel believed thou might essay this.''

Fingon did not look up. ''Glorfindel knows our love.''

''Thy people missed thee. He thought that thou wouldst search for Maedhros.'' A look of awe touched the silver eyes. ''We betrayed thee, left thee to perish or return to Aman. Thou shouldst hate us.''

Fingon gently wound a short strand of the hacked coppery hair about his slender fingers.

''I know hate indeed,'' he said and then looked up, a flash of star-blue. ''Dost even thou not understand? That even if he betrayed me to Morgoth, I would love him?''

Maglor dropped his hands.

''I have never known such love,'' he said. Outside, they could hear, voices: Fingolfin, Turgon, the Fëanorions. They seemed far away.

''He must live.'' Fingon's voice was a challenge. ''He will.'' He stared at Maglor. "There are claw marks, bites..."

''I know. This is what we face. The Valiant, Maedhros named thee. He asked our father to send back ships for thee. For Fingon the Valiant. And thou hast truly earned that name, now.''

Fingon's eyes widened, and suddenly a glow came into them, warm, softly triumphant.  
''I knew my heart could not be mistaken,'' he said. ''But it does not matter, Maglor, not to me. I tried to hate him and could not. And even if he had forsaken me, and all our people, I would wish him to live!''

Maglor bowed his head for a moment and then murmured: ''There are no words to thank thee that would not sound trite, but know this, I support Maedhros in all ways, and I ever have, and let there always be friendship between thee and I, son of Fingolfin.''

''I hoped there always was. There was no need to explain anything to thee, thou didst know of our love and endorse it.'' Very gently, long fingers touched bruised, burned cheeks, as if he could melt away the marks and the scorch with his touch.

''My heart forebodes me that here, love will not be easy and it may be wound with pain and darkness." Maglor murmured. "Treasure it, cousin."

''I do treasure it.''

Maglor nodded, his eyes dropping to his brother's unconscious face and he said slowly: "Thou dost understand what was done to him?"

Fingon's eyes went flat as a mirror. ''Yes.''

''It is said that we die from such violation. The Grey Elves have told us terrible tales.'' The words were a mere thread. ''Unless there is some great reason for us to cling to life. If anything holds him, it will be thou. And the oath.''

''I would not have had him swear that, nor any of thee.'' Fingon knew in his heart that only more evil would come of the oath; more sorrow, more death. A chill rippled through him. ''But if it can hold him, I would call that the only good part of it.''

''Glorfindel said, when he was here, that love is stronger than death,'' Maglor murmured. ''I hope for my brother's sake it is strong enough to bring him back.'' ~

  


  


 

**Fingon art by Tuuliky**


	3. I Have Thee

**I Have Thee.**

~** Lake Mithrim. **

_~ He was being followed. Once or twice, he half looked back, to see a shadow flit out of sight behind one of the trees, but his long stride neither slackened nor quickened as he reached a grove of oaks._

_the light fell in dappled patches, small flowers, gold and white and misty violet bloomed, casting a faint scent. His booted feet were soundless on the sward._

_Leaves rustled behind him faintly. The one who followed him had left the ground, he thought, but was not quite skilled enough yet to make no noise as he passed through the trees. He was too eager, too amused._

_A shape hurtled down upon him with a triumphant cry as Maedhros caught him against his chest and rolled, coming up.  
Silver-blue eyes under a head of raven hair looked up at him.  
''I have thee!'' the boy exclaimed excitedly, collapsing into gurgles of laughter._

_''I surrender.'' Maedhros ruffled the dark hair._

_''Can we ride today? Can I sit before thee?'' The great eyes pleaded, and another smile softened Maedhros' face. ''Atar trusts thee, he knows thou wilt not let me fall.''_

_''I will never let thee fall.''_

_~~~_

_Blackness crashed over him, obliterating the light. A face loomed out of it. The eyes of the the oldest evil scored his own. The mouth spat words of hate and flame._

_''Thou wilt not break me, Bauglir!'' he heard himself cry and then there was pain, pain...pain._

__

 

''I have thee.'' The beloved voice reached through his agony like a bell. ''I am here.'' Gentle, firm touches, the taste of herb-steeped wine, lips upon his own.

''I have thee.''

***

Maedhros woke to warmth, light. And pain. But now it was not the ravening beast which rent him with fangs of iron. Some sweet herb breathed over it. It was there. It was bearable.  
He inhaled carefully. His lashes lifted. Above him, a cloth canopy stretched, rich red and blue, fanning out from a central pole. He frowned as memories broke in thunderclaps through his mind:_ Morgoth. Angband. Thangorodrim._ Fingon...?  
He made a sound in his throat.

''Maedhros.'' Maglor leaned over him, relief like the sunrise in his face. ''Here.'' He slipped an arm behind his brother, raised him, lifting a goblet to his mouth, ''Drink.''

The wine warmed its way down to his stomach, cleared his head.  
''Fingon? He...'' He stopped, lifted his right arm. The hand was gone, and the wrist above it. The stump was bandaged cleanly. He closed his eyes again.  
''It was no dream, then.''

''No, it was no dream.'' Maglor drew his brothers head against him. ''He saved thee. I should have been the one, but he, Fingon the Valiant, he brought thee back.''

Maedhros heard himself begging his cousin for death, felt the knot of shame twist in his stomach.  
"I laid a vow on thee not to essay anything if matters went ill," he whispered. "I heard Fingolfin's host, at the very doors of Angband, I thought I was mad. What has happened?"

''They crossed the ice,'' Maglor's voice was somber. ''They lost many. Their valor passes belief.''

''I thought I was mad. Dying. And,'' he admitted. "I wanted to die."

"I told Fingon that thou wouldst have gone back for them."

"What did he say?"

"What dost thou think? He knew. His heart knew." Maglor tilted the goblet again. "He went to speak to Fingolfin, he will be here soon."

There was a long silence. Beyond came the soft sound of voices, a slap of wind searched the sides of the tent and a breath of cool air stole in.

"Rest, drink and eat, give thyself time to heal..." Maglor's voice died into nothing, his eyes questioned. Maedhros avoided them.

"Brother?"

Still he said nothing. He felt fingers smooth through his hair and leaned into the touch. Gently he was laid back down.  
"I needed thee here," he murmured. "I could not have thee risk thy life. Do not feel guilt. I will heal." His voice became grim. A long breath lifted his chest. "Wilt thou bring Fin'?"

Fingon was already on his way. As Maglor lifted the tent flaps he saw him striding through the pavilions. Many of Fëanor's people bowed to him, but he saw the ironic smile in Curufin's eyes as he passed and Celegorm's cold speculation. Maglor's cry however, brought all eyes to him.

''He has awoken!''

A murmur of joy and relief sounded and Fingon broke into a run, his face alight, gripping Maglor's wrist.

''I must speak with thy father, go in to him.''

When his cousin entered, Maedhros felt a surge of love overwhelm, for the moment, the pains of his body, the corrosion of his soul. Fingon blazed, his eyes in the beautiful face like twin stars. His left hand reached out and his cousin plunged to his knees. Maedhros drew the Prince against him, his cheek on the slippery jet hair.

Fingon's voice came muffled, breath whispering against Maedhros bare skin.  
''Thou didst know I would come.'' Then. ''Thou wouldst have come back for us.''

''But thou didst not know that.''

Fingon sat back. ''I tried to hate thee, for my fathers sake and my brothers. It was little use. My love is too entrenched.''

''I deserve thy hate. I should have done more.''

''Against thy father?'' Fingon raised a brow, shook his head. ''When he was fey and wild? He defied even the Valar! And the Oath bound thee to him. As it still binds thee,'' he ended softly.

''Yes,'' Maedhros said numbly. ''It will bind us until our lives end.''

''If this is the only path we can tread, then we will tread it,'' Fingon said, at last. ''Thou wilt grow hale.'' His eyes fell on the stump of the arm and pain crossed his face, and then fury ''And we will avenge thee and thy father.''

''Fin'?''

''What is it?''

''Thy favored hand for sword-play is thy left.''

"Yes." Fingon's eyes fell to Maedhros lost hand, so strong, yet gentle, with long, graceful fingers.

''How can I lead my brothers if I cannot wield a sword? Wilt thou teach me?''

''Of course,'' A sudden smile broke in Fingon's eyes. ''Of course I will.''

''Thy father will be the High King of our people,'' Maedhros said without preamble. Fingon's eyes widened. ''It is fitting. He is wise and valorous. And many will agree with me.''

''Thou art dispossessing thyself,'' Fingon murmured, ''And few of thy brothers will agree.''  
Maedhros only shrugged.  
''My brothers will follow me,'' he said in a voice which held all the arrogance of the Fëanorions, and brought a hint of a smile to his cousin's mouth.

''I will find a place where we can face the Enemy and he will always know that we are there, that the Sons of Fëanor challenge him and never forget the hurt he has caused us.''

''And I will be with thee,'' Fingon gripped the hand tighter. "I will say nothing to my father yet. That is for thee."

And Maedhros heard the words in his mind: _I cannot follow thy soul into the Everlasting Dark - and so I must keep thee here with me, forever!_

Ebony hair swirled about Maedhros' bare shoulders as Fingon leaned over. He sought the firm lips, gentle at first, until the fire ignited between them. They flushed with shared desire and Fingon drew back. All the things forbidden, because they were both men, because they were cousins, raged through them, wildfire and molten honey.

''I love thee, Maedhros Fëanorion,'' Fingon whispered, ''And I will see thee glorious and well again. But surely excitement is not good for thee.'' He lifted a hand to touch the shorn copper hair.

''Thou doth err. It makes me feel alive. I need it...'' A shadow crossed the face, tenuous as the fading marks of the bruises. ''I need it to _live._''

***

The eyes of all the Noldor were upon Maglor as he approached Fingolfin's camp. Here was another thread sewing closed the rift between the Houses. And not a few of them knew that to be divided would, in this place, be akin to throwing down their weapons and inviting Morgoth to take them.

Fingolfin was sitting at a trestle table turning something in his fingers which sparkled and glinted deep red. A ring. Rubies in an pattern of flames ran around the band. He had made it, long ago, for his half brother.

His eyes slammed shut and his face spasmed with pain.

_How couldst thou leave me, Nárë tauranya? My greatest love, my greatest hate! How can Arda still exist without thee in it? A light greater than these new ones, a spirit more fierce. How canst thou be gone, leaving a gap in my life which naught can ever fill? _ The ring dug into his palm as he clenched his hand over it. _ And where art thou, Fëanor? Where art thou? _

''Sire, Prince Maglor is here,'' one of the guards spoke from the doorway and Fingolfin nodded and rose as his nephew entered and bowed.

''Maedhros has revived, I think?'' Fingolfin said.

''Yes, thank Eru. And thank Fingon.'' Maglor paused and sought for words. ''My lord, uncle. I ask thy forgiveness.''

''Dost thou need it?''

''Yes. Only Maedhros stood apart when the ships were torched, I did not.''

Fingolfin shook his head slowly. ''He is...gone.''

They stared at one another then, the grief breaking through the carven beauty of their faces until it lay raw and bottomless between them. Fingolfin would ever remind Maglor of his father, and Maglor as the living image of Fëanor.

''Thou shouldst hate him,'' Maglor murmured.

''I did hate him. I do. I loved him and I would have followed him into the jaws of Angband itself. I cannot comprehend he is gone. And I hate him for dying and leaving me!'' Fingolfin's voice was scoured of its music by pain.

Maglor walked into his arms, into the embrace which was both like and unlike Fëanor's and they held one another in an desperate effort to both comfort and be comforted.

_He touched me with that fire and showed me desire. And he touched thee also, my uncle. _

''We will bury this division,'' Fingolfin said after a long time. ''Now, let us go out together so that both our peoples can see our own unity. And later I will come and see thy brother.''

The slant of the morning sun struck them as they left the pavilion, walking shoulder to shoulder and then they halted deliberately under the gaze of many eyes. A kiss of kinship was exchanged, then Maglor turned and walked back to the Fëanarion camp. Glorfindel met him and strode by his side.  
''He will live then, thou art sure?'' he asked.

''Yes. He has to.'' Maglor's eyes yet held rage and grief but gladness shone through them. ''And we will never forget this.'' His voice was suddenly passionate. ''Not what Fingon essayed, nor what was done to our brother.''

Glorfindel gazed eastward for a moment. ''We saw the Hells. We know our enemy. We will dwell here and indeed, the _deeds we do will be a matter of song, until the last days of Arda._''

He quoted Fëanor's words and Maglor stood very still a moment as if hearing them again, or the echo of something yet to come. Loss was heavy again in his gaze, as he said:  
''I loved him.''

''I know. He was loved, or hated or one was simply fascinated. And he burned too bright for this world.''

Maglor bowed his head for a moment, and when he raised it tears shone in his eyes, but he would not allow them to fall. He reached out to touch Glorfindel's shoulder.

"I feel as if we lived in a glass bowl. Now it is smashed. We are alone here and the Oath binds us."

And that, thought Glorfindel, lay on all the Fëanorions, like a black gor-crow perched on the shoulder.

"Go and drink some wine," he said. "Drink to Maedhros' recovery. I am going to. I was glad to see thee with Fingolfin. Very diplomatic."

That brought a faint smile to Maglor's face and he nodded.  
''Not just diplomacy,'' he said.

***

Fingon came abruptly from sleep. He had not meant to rest, but the sheer relief of having Maedhros safe and so close had slid him into dreams.

He felt the weight of his lover's head on his chest, and his fingers reflexively smoothed the silken hair. He sensed, without looking that his cousin was awake. Carefully he moved.

''I wish to see thy wounds,'' he murmured, and his hands were very gentle as he drew back the covers, though his jaw clenched in anger. ''We need to change these dressings. ''

He rose and went to the inner flap, and after a moment, Maglor came, two warriors following, bringing hot wine, water, and herbs. When all was done, tenderly and carefully, Maglor knelt beside his brother.

''I will have food brought in a little while.'' He kissed Maedhros' cheek and then let the flaps fall behind him.

"All this will heal, it will fade.'' _But never in his eyes. _ He bent, his hair forming a jet curtain about them.  
''I love thee.'' Sadness still touched his smile, anger burning around the edges, for he would never forget his cousin's suffering, neither in life...nor in death.

_Even wounded as he is, I still burn for him._

He remembered asking Maedhros once if their forbidden love was as wrong as he had feared, so long had Maedhros battled it. He had blazed into denial which Fingon challenged with a kiss. He wanted to see his Maedhros as he should be, proud and tall and shining, glorious to behold. And not for selfish reasons alone, but because that was how Maedhros ever should be, and by becoming it again, he would deny and defy that which had been done to him in Angband.

Sunset painted the western sky as Fingolfin made his way to Maedhros' tent through the silent volley of stares. Inside the pavilion was only Maglor, Fingon, sitting cross legged upon a cushion and Maedhros himself, laid back on the pallet. He tried to raise himself as his uncle entered, but was forestalled by a raised hand, and Fingolfin went down beside him in a hunter's crouch, his eyes passing over the bandaged arm, the bruises and marks. He reached out and touched the cropped hair and shook his head.

''My lord...''

"No more apologies, nephew." But the words were warm. "I know that thou wouldst have returned for us. Heal and let us hold together."

''That is more than we deserve, my king.'' At the lift of Fingolfin's black brows, a quirk so similar to Fëanor's, Maedhros went on: ''Our Oath binds my brothers and I to its pursuit, and how could we then give our minds over to the welfare of our people as we should? Thou knowest that is true, uncle.''

''And so my brother's accusations come to life and are made real,'' Fingolfin murmured with an irony in the words that perhaps only he and his dead half-brother could truly appreciate.

_The dispossessed they shall be forever,_ Námo had said.

''There was a hate as and love as deep as the Encircling Seas between thy father and I, Maedhros,'' Fingolfin said. ''Yet I would have called him my king. And he knew it.''  
_ Thou wert so easy to hate, Fëanor, not easy to love. Yet easiest of all to desire; if one could bear the pain of thy burning. _  
''We swore no Oath, but thy cause is the cause of my House also. Finwë was my father, and even if Morgoth had not stolen the Silmarilli, he would bear my undying hatred for that murder. But while thou doth heal, we will remain beside this lake, and meet with those Elves whom inhabit this land, for they can tell us much. Already some have come.'' He rose silently. ''Thy brothers will not all agree to what thou dost purpose, Maedhros.''

''Maglor will agree,'' Fingon offered and heard the agreement. ''And thou wilt always be a prince to me, beloved.'' His lashes veiled his eyes. If Fingolfin would be High King of the Noldor in this land where war was a certainty and violence had already been seen and felt, it was even more imperative that he, as heir, wed and beget children.

_ I will not think of this yet._

His father's eyes met his for a moment, and then he said:  
''Rest, Maedhros. Thou art thy father's son indeed, yet still thou must give thyself time.''

Fingon's brows crooked as Fingolfin and Maglor left.  
"I should let thee rest," he said, "I have to be gentle, but I want to heal thee with love, and am impatient!" He saw Maedhros smile and shook his head wryly.  
_It is this place. Endor. Everything seems harsher, faster here, more urgent...I feel it, I burn the more, I burn for him. _

***

In that time, while Maedhros healed, the Elves whom already inhabited the lands came to meet with the Exiles. These were of the Third Clan of the Firstborn, of Teleri blood, whom had not made the great journey. The Noldor named them Grey Elves, for those people wore that color, and wove of it cloaks which blended in to the grey-silver northern mists, rock and water, rendering the wearers well-nigh invisible. These people had lived here long and known of Morgoth's orcs for many years. They were masters of the bow and of stealth.

Coming as they had during an attack by Morgoth on Círdan the Shipwright, the Noldor were at first believed to have been sent by the Valar, and were greeted as long-sundered kin. Their languages had grown apart and the Exiles, always eager to learn, began to use the language of Sindar, who named the Noldor _ Lachend _ or 'Flame-eyed' for the incandescent fire of their eyes.

Thus the incomers learned of the lands of Endor and most especially of Elu Thingol, King of Doriath, the Land of the Girdle. Thingol, then called Elwë, had been close friends with Finwë before he was deemed lost. Olwë his brother had lead the Teleri to Aman, but many of Elwë's people had lingered, unwilling to go without their lord. And in the starlit woods of Nan Elmoth, Elwë had heard nightingales and stepped forth to see Melian, a Maia of Yavanna, and his heart was bound to hers. And from their love sprang Lúthien, whom was spoken of as the most beautiful of all the Children of Eru.

Thingol did not welcome the arrival of so many princes of the Noldor, and did not wish the Elves of Beleriand to be unhomed nor lorded over, thus his messages seemed cold, and angered some of the Fëanorions. But Fingolfin said that Thingol merely acted as any king would, that he himself would remain in the north.

Through Eärwen, the Swan-Maiden of Alqualondë, the House of Finarfin were kin to Thingol, and had leave to enter Doriath. Thingol also extended a tentative friendship to Fingolfin as Finwë's son. But he would not have the blood of the Kinslayers in his realm, and when the Oath was learned of, Thingol and Melian were troubled.

Fingolfin remained in the land of Hithlum, where the Ered Wethrin were a bulwark against Angband, and many towers were built to keep watch over the great plain of Ard Galen. Here, about the springs of the great River Sirion, he built his mighty fortress of Barad Eithil. Fingon would dwell in the midst of that region, and Turgon beside the shores of the sea, before his dream, sent by Ulmo, which would lead him to discover the hidden vale of Tumladen, and begin the building of Gondolin.

Fingon ceased to hide his love for Maedhros, too intent on his cousin's recovery to concern himself with what people might say, but years of caution had ingrained themselves and only Fingolfin and Maglor ever witnessed their intimacy.

Maglor, as Fingon had guessed, supported Maedhros' decision to relinquish the kingship of the Noldor, but the other Fëanorions were outraged. It was in part due to this that they later sought lands as far from Fingolfin and his sons as possible.

Each day, as the wounds and bruises faded on his cousin's body, Fingon rejoiced. He was gentle, during that time, but an omnipresent fury at Morgoth and a reined-in desire sent him out to spar with his lords, with Maglor, his father, his brother, Glorfindel and Ecthelion. It allowed him to slake those emotions which burned in him and return to Maedhros calmer.  
He was determined that his lover would wield a blade with his left hand with as much facility - nay greater - than he had with his right. All Elves were able to use either hand, but most favored one above the other. And Fingon knew that unlike Aman, Endor would be a land where they wore their swords as they did clothing, ever close. ~

~~~

 

Nárë tauranya - my Mighty Flame - Q  
The story of Fëanor and Fingolfin's relationship is told in '' I Will Lead And Thou Shall Follow. ''

  



	4. A Victory And A Warning

  
**A Victory And A Warning.**   


~Twenty years after the rising of the Sun, Fingolfin called a great feast near the pools of Ivrin, where the river Narog rose.  
The feast was called _Mereth Aderthad,_ the Feast of Re-Uniting. Fingolfin came from his mighty fortress of Barad Eithel, and there came also his sons. Grey Elves came, and Círdan the Shipwright from the Havens of Bithombar and Eglarest. There were even Green Elves from Ossiriand, the Land of Seven Rivers, far east under the skirts of the Blue Mountains. But only two came from Doriath, Daeron, the fabled minstrel, whose songs it was said, were inspired by the beauty of Lúthien Tinúviel, and Mablung of the Heavy Hand, one of the chief Marchwardens of Thingol.

The sons of Fëanor arrived with many of their people on a glorious day of gold and green. Great drifts of blossom foamed on the trees, and they rode through a fall of pink and white blossoms. The pavilions of the Noldor were like huge flowers with pennons fluttering above them in the gentle spring breeze out of the south.

Fingon had not seen his cousin for twenty years.

Maedhros had gone eastward to the lands about the Hill of Himring, the region which came to be named the March of Maedhros. Northwards there were only poor natural defenses against Angband and because of this, rather than despite it, Maedhros chose to site his chief fortress on the great hill called Himring the Ever-Cold. He was the first in line from any assault from Angband, and indeed he desired this; hatred for Morgoth burned under his skin like fire.

Maglor kept the land between the arms of the River Gelion, where the hills failed altogether, and it was called Maglor's Gap. A force of cavalry was kept there who could move swiftly out onto the plain of Ard Galen if there were need.

It was Caranthir's folk who first came upon the Dwarves, for Caranthir settled furthest east, beside the dark, deep Lake Helevorn. There was little friendship between them, for Caranthir found the Naugrim stunted and unlovely. Yet they hated Morgoth and made alliance with the Fëanorions, and when the dwarves began to trade again into Beleriand behind the leaguer of the Noldor, much wealth passed through Caranthir's land.

When Maedhros and Maglor met with the Naugrim chieftains, and to formally seal the alliance, one of the smiths of Nogrod, Telchar, fashioned for Maedhros a hand, so real in all its lineaments that it could fool any eye into believing that Maedhros wore a gauntlet. It was of polished silver-steel, written with runes and ever gleamed bright as at its first making.

During that time the Noldor had been building, fortifying and settling into their new-founded realms. Few traveled from them in those early years and the time passed swiftly. When news of the Fëanorions arrival was brought to him, Fingon left his tent, mounted his horse and rode out to meet them.

''Cousins.'' He leaned in the saddle to clasp their hands, smiling in astonishment as he saw Maedhros' silver hand.

''That is beautiful,'' he exclaimed, and Maglor laughed.

''Dwarven make, Fin'. He is most proud of it, I think he sleeps with it on.''

The pavilions of the Fëanorions were erected swiftly, and their fiery banners rippled from the roof-trees. There was much space, for camp was not crowded together, but laid out in orderly fashion, with pens for the horses and always a guard on the outermost margins. The shadow in the north seemed not to touch this time, although it brooded ever behind the Ered Engrin.

Peaceful and glowing after their urgent lovemaking, the cousins walked out to a small pool, overhung by old willows. Fingon rested his head back against Maedhros' chest and they spoke of the building, the armies, the patrols, the preparations, and their hearts, like all others there, were high, and their eyes flashed as the spoke, before desire awoke in them once again, the need to be so close to one another there was no bar, a union of both bodies and souls. As it ever was with them.

Fingon plunged into the small pool and they let the crystal water swirl around them. He reached out and took Maedhros silver hand.

''This is truly magnificent.''

''The Dwarves are very skilled, but they cannot make it feel.'' Maedhros smiled ruefully. ''My left serves me better than my right did, now.''

''We have heard of the Naugrim. Father has sent messages to their dwellings in the Blue Mountains, inviting them to trade.'' Fingon fingertips traced the endless, beautiful designs on the hand, wondering that a people who were supposed to be uncouth could fashion something of such beauty.

''They are a strange people: taciturn, and belligerent, but they are crafty and skilled, and strong as mountain stone. They will be great allies.''  
Maedhros stepped from the water and lay on his stomach on the sward, letting the dappling sunlight fall across him. Fingon lay down beside him, he drew a comb from his cloak and pulled it through the wet red hair. It had grown long and lustrous again and shone like a living thing as it dried in the warm air.

''It seems almost strange to think of battle here,'' he mused.

''Yes. Yet it will come. This is a false peace, but we have used well the time.'' Maedhros sat up, and turned Fingon's head to comb the great flood of jet hair, then tossed the comb aside and leaned back on his arms.

''We are not idle, our fortresses are built to withstand siege, our warrior train constantly, and Middle-earth is vast and beautiful beyond the telling.'' He looked up into the limitless sky. ''Father was right. We could rule Endor, once Morgoth is defeated. And then...we could openly be together. No more partings.''

''Let it be so,'' Fingon said. ''No more partings.''

They walked back to their tents as dusk came down, seeing Maglor walking alone, save for the lyre which he held. The notes were almost desultory, as if he were stringing together a new tune in his mind, and his eyes were elsewhere.

''He is on his mettle,'' whispered Maedhros, smiling. ''For rumor says that Daeron of Doriath is the finest singer and harpist of all Middle-earth and tonight they will play together.''

Fingon laughed softly. ''Ah, hence he sees naught but his music. I saw Daeron arrive, with Mablung, a warrior of Doriath. King Thingol sends a token presence only.''

Maglor came out of his thoughts as the cousins approached, and smiled letting his fingers draw out a wordless, lovely snatch of melody – the music he had composed for the lovers in Tirion.

''And wilt thou play that this night?'' Fingon asked.

''Perhaps,'' Maglor said. ''The sun sets and the feast begins soon and both of thee look as if thou hast been tumbling in the grass, Eru knows why.'' He himself was already dressed in deep red, sapphire and black breeches. His cloak-brooch of a harp overlaying the badge of the House of Fëanor, glittered in the last rays of the sun. He winked at their private, shared smiles.

''We go, my lord.'' Maedhros bowed and Maglor slapped his back on passing, walking on alone until a movement caught his eye and he paused. A young girl slipped out from under the trailing branches of a willow and stood looking after Maedhros and Fingon. Her eyes were wide and dark in a piquant little face, and she looked delicate as a carving in alabaster.

''Little doves have big eyes,'' he said, amused when she jumped and dipped down before him in a flurried curtsy, then he turned as he heard Glorfindel's voice behind him. Glorfindel too was arrayed for feast in celandine and emerald, golden hair gleaming and a princely circlet on his brow.

"There thou art, linnet!" he said, and to Maglor: "Fanari, daughter of Penlod. She is the firstborn of us in Exile." His look was affectionate.

''Let us hope we have many such children in time of peace,'' Maglor said, as Glorfindel lifted her. She nestled trustingly against him and continued to stare at Maglor with huge, curious eyes.  
''I will play for thee later,'' he promised, and her face shone as she thanked him.  
~~~  
He saw the child later that night, sitting with her parents, and she wept. The old ache to sire children came on him; daughters as sweet as she, sons to grow tall. With the Oath binding him he never would...  
_No, _ he thought, _What is the truth? The truth is that I was woken to desire by my own father, and I will never wed. _

And he wondered too, what prompted him to gift Fanari Penlodiel with the great brooch he wore, too large for her, fashioned to be worn by a tall warrior.

Thus does Eru move through the actions of mankind.

~~~

At Mereth Aderthad many counsels were taken, and when it ended, the fire and hope in the hearts of all the Elves, was high. Fingon returned to Hithlum, and Maedhros to the Hill of Himring, their bond ever stronger, yet each of them having their own duties and people to govern. Both of them knew that love for them was a gift to be grasped when they could. They could not live together or even close, but even so, it was a grace to both of them, something beautiful flowering from sorrow and grief and evil.

~~~

The years passed peacefully. Beleriand was green and fecund and upon it the Noldor built their fortresses of white stone, graceful and beautiful, though they built never for beauty alone, but for strength also. Never did they forget their purpose, or the threat of Angband.

Their warriors trained, swords were kept sharp, the bright eyes on the watchtowers scanned out unceasingly over Ard Galen and Lothlann where the cavalry of Maglor galloped.

Morgoth sent our spies, who reported to him that many of the Lords of the Noldor wandered from their lands, seemingly careless. In that time Turgon and Finrod made journeys, and Finrod was told by Thingol of Doriath of the caves under the High Faroth, and there Finrod commenced building Nargothrond, and Turgon was told by Ulmo in a dream of the hidden valley of Tumladen, where he would raise that city of legend, Gondolin.

And thus Morgoth believed that the Noldor were unprepared for any attack and he struck without warning.

Earthquakes rocked the north, the ground opened in fissures of fire, and the Iron Mountains belched flame. Orcs poured forth across Ard Galen, coming down the Pass of Sirion in the West, and the in the east they burst through the land of Maglor. But Fingolfin and Maedhros were alert, and Maedhros sent forth his younger brothers to destroy the roving bands of orcs who had gone south into Beleriand. Fingolfin and his sons, Maedhros and Maglor came on the main host as it was assaulting Dorthonion, and caught it between two steel walls.

Like two converging waves, the Noldor hosts crashed into the orcs of Angband. No orc, not even the Great Orcs Morgoth bred could match one of the Elves in strength, in swiftness or speed. Swords flashed, spears and arrows flew into the dark horde, and the horses, trained to kill, were another sword-arm for their riders, steel shod hooves treading black blood.

The banners of Fingolfin broke in the freshening breeze, and through the blood on his face, white teeth gleamed in a savage smile as Fingon looked across the battlefield to see the fiery pennons of his cousins like flames in the wind. Maedhros now wielded his sword with his left hand with even greater skill than his lost right, and in his eyes burned a terrifying light. In the eyes of all the Noldor that fell light blazed, and their faces, under plumed helms shone with fierce hatred as they leaped to the onset.

Fingon rose in his stirrups and raised his sword. There was a glitter and a cry from thousands of throats as the Fëanorion warriors answered, and their momentum regathered. They pursued the enemy horde across the plains, slaying the stragglers, catching them at last within sight of the very gates of Angband.

At the sight of that blank, louring fortress of evil, knowing the hatred behind it, Fingon was filled with a rage yet more fierce, remembering Maedhros' torment on Thangorodrim. Wheeling his stallion he cut a last group of fleeing orcs from the main pack, his blade slashing into black armor and hide in a blur as he destroyed them.

Time slowed. He raised his sword, flicking the blood from it.

''Come,'' he commanded as he gathered his warriors, and cast one flaming glance back over his shoulder at the terrible walls of Angband, before he rode away.

The Noldor hosts met further south, the princes and the High King dismounting in a fair green place. Fingon tugged off his blood-gored helm as Maedhros strode to the High King, embraced him and then turned to his cousin.

A watch was set while the Elves rested, saw to their horses, cleaned weapon and armor and themselves. A bivouac for council, but also a victory celebration. And although they watched, no other forced was sent south from Angband.

They rode on, coming to southern flanks of the Highlands of Dorthonion, and there made a great camp. Angrod and Aegnor who ruled Dorthonion, came hither with wine and food so that the lords all might meet in comfort.

Dagor Aglareb, that battle was called, the Glorious Battle, but it was also a warning to them. Their watch would be strengthened, their Leaguer drawn tighter and closer.

Watch fires burned bright under the stars and the sound of Maglor's peerless voice rose in praise of victory.

After battle, desire. This the Noldor had learned since Alqualondë. Their spirits burned, their bodies also; after war, be it victory, or defeat, there blossomed lust.

Maglor saw the hunger in Maedhros' face reflected in Fingon's and rode out with them from the camp. There he left them alone, telling them he would return later. It was still necessary to maintain the secrecy of their relationship and so, as he had in Tirion, Maglor used his presence to deflect speculation.

The Noldor were learning other refinements of erotica, which at first shocked, and then became part of the games lovers played. Their fires held a tinge of darkness, all those Exiles. Even in times of peace their past actions weighed on their souls. In the esoteric pathways of sex they found they could forget the Doom which lay over them all. It heightened the pleasures, gave them a complexity and depth they would never have imagined in more simple times. But the Noldor were never a simple people, they sought knowledge, always and sometimes cared little how it was got.

Who could say if there were some spice of competitiveness in these two, the eldest sons of Fëanor and Fingolfin? It was never spoken of by them, perhaps never admitted to, but it added a thrill to their couplings that would last all their days.

~~~


	5. A Darker Malice

** A Darker Malice.**

~ There was time then after the Dagor Aglareb when the Princes of the Noldor could visit one another and meet for council. Certain things had become known since their arrival in Endor which darkened their hearts.

Some months after Dagor Aglareb, Maglor was in his fortress in the Gap speaking with Caranthir, who had come from the east. The night was quiet although the eyes of the Elves ever watched the north from their battlements and outposts.  
Yet there was something in the air that lay heavy upon the soul, and Maglor often rose and walked to the window, looking into the night. His skin prickled as if an animal's pelt brushed by in the dark.

When he heard the distant sound of hooves echoing on stone, the cries of soldiers, he leaped to his feet, buckling on his sword and sprinted down the passageways and stairs. He almost ran into one of the warriors coming up, as in haste as he himself.

"My lord." There was blood upon the man's hands and cloak. His voice was unsteady. ''My lord, thou must come. We have found a woman who was deemed lost when the enemy came through the Gap.''

The room was an inner one, and its stone walls muffled the screams which he heard as soon as he entered. Two healers were there, bent over a figure laid upon a bed. Soft bonds had been tied about the wrists, which brought an initial exclamation of outrage from Maglor, until he saw why she had been so restrained. A filthy gown was torn almost from her body, distended blood vessels, showing black on the mound of her stomach, moved like great worms as within...something writhed, bulging against the skin. And there was a great darkness in the room, even the blue-white lamps seemed to struggle against it. He felt his skin grow icy.

''What is this?'' he demanded, his voice gone flat with shock. The woman's eyes gaped wide, and there was no sanity there. Her pants of pain filled the room.

One of the healers straightened, his face was pale and sheened in sweat. ''My lord, it is Telian....she was raped by orcs we think, when they came through the Vale of Sirion.''

''Raped?'' Maglor's eyes shone brilliant silver with wrath, but shook his head, his eyes still upon the bed. ''No.. those things could not get a child on one of our women! She would die!''

The healer said flatly: ''Ay, she should be dead, there is some black sorcery here. Canst thou not feel it, my lord?''

The woman writhed, bucking up on bent knees, her stomach rippling. A hoarse groan came from her throat, bestial and despairing.  
Maglor heard himself growl like a warhound. His flesh grew damp. There was a presence here as tangible as thick smoke, watching...curious, cold. Something malignant and intelligent was in this room with them. The dim light burned down into red coals.

''Stand aside!'' he said. ''_Now._''

The healers stepped back as Maglor drew a dagger from his belt. In one swift move he cut the woman's throat, reflexively jerking his head away from the jet of blood, and then he held her as her body slumped in merciful death. For a moment he thought he heard hissing in the dark corners of the chamber.

''In the name of...'' he choked, and Caranthir swore behind him. The terribly distorted stomach was heaving, as if whatever were within it sought a way out of the now dead form.

''Oh, Ilúvatar...'' It was a true prayer, sobbed through Maglor's teeth as lifted the knife and plunged it into the belly. There was a shriek, a wet tearing sound, the reek of blood filled the room as something slithered from the ripped stomach to the floor: a thing..a monster whose wide mouth gaped avidly over scarlet-glossed fangs. Its flesh was black, its slanting eyes glared red. On the end of perfect, tiny hands, nails like iron curled and stretched, reaching out as it squirmed forward, screaming in a sound of hunger...

A sword came down, and the squealing ceased as the head parted from the body. Maglor could hear himself breathing hard and a voice was saying. ''Eru, Eru...''

The healers stared at him as he laid a hand on the dead woman's brow. It shook a little, smeared red.  
''Find peace, lady,'' he murmured and then whirled on the healers.

''Bury her!'' he snarled. ''And burn that..._monstrosity!_''

He flung himself from the room, felt Caranthir's hand on his back as he strode up to his chambers. He dropped his head in his hands, and when he raised them, his face was white, streaked by gore. There was the splash of wine and his brother held a goblet to his lips. Maglor drank it off in one swallow then sat down at the table.

''Eru,'' he whispered. ''Some of my people did vanish, we thought them dead...better that they were!'' He slammed his hands down on the marble. ''Curse thee Morgoth Bauglir!'' He ran his hands through his hair, the stench of birth-blood clung to them and he went to his bedchamber, scrubbing and laving them. As the water turned red, he said, through clenched teeth: ''Brother, I need thee to tell this to Maedhros, if thou art returning to Himring. I will have messengers take this news west to the High King.''

''I will go now, I will gather my warriors.'' Caranthir's voice was stark with the aftermath of shock.

Maglor's hand shook as he wrote, the ink spattering across the vellum, but the implications of this evil must be known to all. The women must be guarded...The face of the child he had seen at Mereth Aderthad rose in his mind, and became many, ones who were part of his people, who had to be protected.

_Why? Why? _ A woman would surely die if raped by orcs, but even that freedom had been taken from Telian.  
_ She was mad, Eru help her...Nienna pity her!_

When Caranthir had gone, only then did Maglor bathe, as if to scrub the lingering odor of horror from him and then he wept for the dead, head in his hands. He would never forget the woman's torment, the creature which had grown within her and come out ready to feed. Again he thought: _ Why?_

None knew then that in years to come, the one who had experimented in keeping unwilling souls trapped within their bodies would sire his own children in the dank of once beautiful Tol Sirion, after named Tol-in-Gaurhoth.  
It was indeed the very reason Sauron, Morgoth's greatest servant watched as captured Elves were violated by the spawn of his Master, to practice his dark arts.  
And he knew that, with Melkor's help, he would, one day, succeed.

~~~

A hundred years passed, when once again Morgoth essayed to make an attack. Knowing the vigilance of Maedhros in the east, Morgoth sent forth an army into the north, which passed west and then south and came down the coasts to the Firth of Drengist, the same route Fingolfin's host had taken coming down from the Helcaraxë.  
But they were seen, and Fingon gathered his army and fell upon them at the head of the Firth, and well-nigh all of the orcs were driven into the sea. Fingon and his warriors fought alone there, and the orcs were relatively few in number, thus the battle was not counted among the great ones. Thereafter though, there was peace for many years. Morgoth realized, with black fury, that his orcs alone were no match for the Noldor. And so he delved into the abysses of his thoughts and devised a new terror.

The Urulóki - Firedrakes. Perhaps nothing Morgoth created was so powerful. It drove the stunned Elves who patrolled Ard Galen back to the Ered Wethrin, scorching and defiling the grasslands with fire and the slime from its body.

Fingon, hearing report from one who had seen Glaurung, as the beast came to be called, armored himself and strode out into the great ward.

''Archers,'' he said. ''I ask only those who do so of their own will to ride with me.'' His blue-silver eyes swept over his warriors and as one, they stepped forward and their Prince was filled with love for them.  
''Come then.'' He fastened his helm and strode to his horse.

Their first sight of the great creature caused them all to rein in. Scaled and massive, seeping ooze, the creature breathed strength and malice and the grass was withered about it. Then it raised its head and screamed; fire belched from its open mouth.

The prince's eyes blazed. He guided his war-horse with his knees and murmured soft assurances to it.

''Surround it!'' he cried. ''Let it taste our steel and choke on it!''

Flame seared past him as his mount sprang into a run, behind him he heard a double scream of agony from horse and man as they were caught in fire. Rage screamed through to his nerve endings as he nocked his bow, and fired.

The Noldor formed a running ring around the creature, who was slower and clumsy in turning upon its attackers, and arrows drove in volley after volley through the air. The drake screamed, for his scales were yet not so hard as they would become, and the arrows were tipped with hard steel. It shook its head, flinching and gradually backed away, turning to slither north to its dread lair.

Fingon earned high praise for this act, yet he was troubled, for they had not slain the drake. What else might Morgoth be planning? There seemed no limit to his malice.

But after this there came the time called the Long Peace, lasting three hundred years, and behind the guard and leaguer of their armies in the north, the Noldor built their towers and fair dwellings, and things of beauty, and wrote their books of lore and composed songs, and kept vigilant.

The Long Peace...which in memory seemed always too brief, a dream of gold and light, before the ruin of the world.

~~~

**Vinyamar**

  
In those days before Turgon journeyed with Finrod, he dwelt furthest west of all the Noldoli Princes, in the Halls of Vinyamar, under Mount Tarass.  
Here was the call of the sea ever strong, but of all the Noldor, Fingon and Turgon least repented the Exile. Great halls were built there and his people dwelt there one hundred and twenty-five years, until they vanished to Gondolin.

Fingon, whose realm was amidmost in Hithlum, often visited his younger brother, for Glorfindel and Ecthelion, Lieutenants of Turgon, had long been his friends.

As the spring brought warm winds from the south and the promise of a golden summer, the High Prince of the Noldor rode with a company of his knights to Vinyamar, to find his brother gone on a long journey with Finrod.

''It is no matter,'' Fingon said, as he was lead into the King's Halls by the castellan, then he smiled as he saw the golden head of Glorfindel approaching, with that long, leonine stride and raised a hand.

''Fingon.'' They clasped wrists. "I greet thee in thy brother's absence. How goes it in thy realm?"

''All is at peace, my friend. I will remain for a time, and enjoy Turgon's hospitality. Dost thou know where he has gone?''

''South, down Sirion, I believe.'' Glorfindel turned and nodded to the castellan, who left to have chambers prepared and a servant brought wine.

''When didst thou last see Maedhros?'' he asked as they sat on the wide balcony which showed a spectacular, yet always disturbing view of the sea, across a great drop where gardens thrived behind walls that protected them from the salt winds. Vinyamar was built into and around a vast cliff and looked out as would a sea-eagle's nesting place, forty ells above the lap of the gardens below.

''Not for some time.'' Fingon lifted his goblet and the light glinted from a ring of opals which had once graced another hand.  
'' I will ride to Himring, if he does not come here.''  
Fingon watched as servants passed carrying a great furled cloth which they unrolled then set on poles and drew up to hang from the ceiling. ''That is Penlod's banner, what is happening?''

Glorfindel smiled. "This night we hold feast for the first child of the Exile, Fanari Pendlodiel. Perhaps thou canst represent thy brother. This is Fanari's begetting day and we would be honored if thou wert to stand for our prince."

Fingon had glimpsed Fanari once or twice, and greeted her kindly when Penlod brought her before him. She went down into a low reverence and then came up, smiling.  
"Sire, thy presence honors us."

~~~

The night was stirred by a sea breeze and the stars were brilliant as the Noldor walked in the gardens and listened to music. Fanari drifted from guest to guest, accepting congratulations with smiles and soft laughter.

Fingon was intrigued when she sat for a moment close to Glorfindel and Ecthelion, showing no offense at their intimacy. No-one present seemed to see it, or if they did, ignored it. Fanari rose and left them, calling something back over her shoulder as she walked away, which brought laughter. Her path took her close to the Fingon and he saw there was still a slightly mischievous smile on her mouth.

''They do not hide their relationship,'' Fingon murmured almost to himself.

''Shameless, are they not, sire.'' Fanari swept her skirts aside as he gestured for her to sit.

''Thou dost not consider it wrong, lady?''  
She shook her head.  
"It is against our laws."

''I have known them since I was born," She replied calmly. "Of course there are some who deem it ill, Salgant and some of his friends. But all love is good, surely?"

The breeze seemed to bring loneliness from the dark sea. Fingon longed with a sudden intensity to have Maedhros here and to feel him, join with him, explore him with endless, heated pleasure and fascination while the brine-breeze bathed their hot flesh.

''Many must wonder that they defy the Laws so, two great lords who should be married and being gifted their own children.''  
His fingers touched a ring he wore, fire opals set in gold, glowering with mysterious light.

Fanari's eyes followed his movements, then returned to his face.  
''I am young, I know,'' she said. ''But I do not understand that particular law.'' She glanced across to the two lovers. "Glorfindel says neither of them are for marriage, but if they were, why would it be any less valid than the marriage of my mother and father?"

Fingon's black brows lifted a little. He wondered if she read his mind, or guessed the significance of the ring, but that was impossible.  
''But such a joining is against the Law, lady.'' _And I flouted it._

''Perhaps the Law does not take into account all the many aspects of love, sire,'' she murmured. ''I have heard Salgant declaim that such degeneracy will show itself in weakness, cowardice and in idleness; that it will rot us. Glorfindel and Ecthelion?" She sounded amused. "Did not thy love for Prince Maedhros give thee the passion and resolve needed to rescue him from Thangorodrim?''

So she knew. Had Glorfindel told her? She seemed to be close as a daughter to him. When her eyes rose, she was smiling a little.  
''I saw thee with Maedhros at Mereth Aderthad, sire. I was so used to seeing Ecthelion and Glorfindel together, that I saw only two people whose love made the dusk like the dawn.''

Fingon found himself returning her smile.  
"Glorfindel and Ecthelion are clearly bad influences," he teased. ''But Maedhros and I are two elder sons, princes, who are expected to wed and sire children.'' It was, he knew, his duty to marry. There were rumors enough about him, but none dared say anything to his face. Fingolfin understood, yet it was impossible for him to marry again, he was already wed and Fingon's mother, like Nerdanel, remained in Aman. Turgon's beloved Elenwë had died crossing the Helcaraxë and Idril had been their only child. The onus was on Fingon to choose a bride.

''I am sorry such long leagues separate thee,'' Fanari said with a demure downward glance which puzzled him. Had he not heard her acceptance of him, he might have thought her laughing at his too-visible hunger for his cousin.  
''I would have been honored had Maedhros come here on this day. Glorfindel and my father say he is worthy of high love and respect, despite the Oath.''

''Yes. And he merits it.'' Fingon's voice was suddenly passionate.

''She made thee smile?'' Glorfindel walked across to them.

''She has been deeply corrupted by thee,'' Fingon said mock-stern.

"It would be too hard a road to hide things from one's friends."

"It is a hard road," Fingon agreed somberly. "Yet it seems in this world, that it is the only road. I should not have believed it would be different in Endor."

~~~

''First child of the Exile, Fanari Penlodiel, I ask that the One bless thy days, make fair thy paths, protect thee and bring thee to Peace.''

Fingon rested his hand on Fanari's head and kissed her brow. She sank into a deep reverence, before rising and turning to bow to her parents. Turgon's lords came forward to formally present her with gifts.

_Ecthelion has gone to greet the unexpected arrivals._ Glorfindel nodded to her and she smiled, casting a glance around his broad shoulder as the crowd behind Fingon drew back like dancers from the center of a room.

The Fëanorions strode into the gardens, magnificently arrayed and drawing all eyes with their fierce beauty, and sublimely unconscious arrogance. Lamplight flashed from jewels and on gold and silver thread, gleamed on Maedhros' copper-bronze hair.

Glorfindel saw Fingon turn as if something reached out and touched his back, and had a clear view of Maedhros' face unguarded for a moment, before the formality of the occasion glazed it. Beside him, Fanari said under her breath:  
''There is no need to prolong the formalities, Glorfindel. They have ridden far, and should now take their ease.''

Glorfindel looked down at her with a faint, appreciative smile and nodded. Since this was an momentous occasion, it might be expected that any visitors would perform their duties. She was stepping aside so that two lovers, parted for many years, could come together.

Taking her hand gently, Glorfindel walked across to Maedhros, and there was a rustle of silk as she made a reverence.

"My lords," he said. "On behalf of the lady Fanari, whose begetting day we celebrate, thou art most welcome here, but she prays that after such a long journey, thou wilt now take refreshment and ease."

Fanari bent her head, as was courteous for one so young, in the presence of highest royal blood and murmured:  
''I am honored, my lords. It is as Lord Glorfindel says. The night grows old, I thank thee for thy presence here and ask thee to now put aside care and rest, for the way is long from the east, and thou hast many friends in Vinyamar.''

Glorfindel squeezed her hand. There was nothing in her tone to suggest that she was mouthing courtesies, wished her day had not been blighted by the arrival of these sons of Fëanor. She did not possess the dislike, or wariness of them that many did.  
He had told her three days ago that a message had come announcing that Maedhros and Maglor were journeying to Vinyamar. When it became clear Fingon did not know –  
unless his soul knew and had lead him here – she had agreed that they not tell him, that he be surprised.

Maedhros bent his head.  
''We thank thee, lady. Indeed Himring is sundered from us by far too many leagues. May we offer our congratulations to thee on this day?''

Fanari bowed and stepped back, her mother and Penlod, each side of her, seamlessly allowing the transition from Begetting Day to a gathering of long parted friends.

Fingon moved forward reaching out his hand, and clasped his cousin's left one, and then embraced him, a public gesture, yet filled with love, as he whispered:  
''It feels like an Age since I saw thee.'' His eyes held the silver ones a long moment, before he turned to Maglor and was clasped close. A servant was standing with spiced wine and Fingon took two of the goblets and handed them to the brothers.  
''Turgon journeys with Finrod, knowest thou?''

Maglor nodded and glanced at Glorfindel.  
''Yes, it matters not, we can take counsel with thee.''

''I will have messengers ride to my father, perhaps he will meet us in Hithlum, or we might go to Barad Eithel.'' His eyes were drawn back to Maedhros and he cast a glance around, guiding his cousin to an alcove of marble surrounded by honeysuckle. It was was like a window high up, looking over the starlit sea, and in the bower he thrust Maedhros back and kissed him in a furious demonstration of passion and need.

_I have ached for thee, Naltanárya!* _ His hands slid in to the glorious hair and he felt that wild, beautiful fire ignite in him, the fire which only Maedhros could ever rouse in him.

~~~

Fanari had not done more than glance, very briefly, at Maglor. Her heart was fluttering like a wild bird caught in a net and she did not dare to glance his way again, until he had moved away.

_This is foolish. _ she thought, but her eyes were still drawn to the startling, dark beauty and when he laughed at something which Glorfindel said to him, the blaze of attraction flashed every nerve in her body into fire. Glorfindel had said Maglor was Fëanor's image, cast in a kinder mold, and if that was so, she could imagine that women yes, and men too, would have been obsessed by him.

~~~

Maglor felt himself relaxing moment by moment, feeling the fierce emptiness within his elder brother eased now that they were here. As Fingon lead Maedhros away, apparently deep in conversation, he turned to Glorfindel.  
"It has been long for them both. My brother lives as one consumed by flame, ever training, ever drilling, looking over maps and plans...but he aches. This will be a fair place to remain for a time."

''It is a propitious day for thee to come,'' Glorfindel said and beckoned to Fanari, who crossed to them with a hint of reluctance.  
''Didst thou not gift Fanari with a brooch at Mereth Aderthad?''

''I did.'' Maglor inclined his head. As a child, she had wept when he played. He still wondered why. She was grown now, still young, yet he appreciated what she was doing. Whether that was instigated by Glorfindel, or a deeper understanding, he did not know. But his brother and Fingon had always had to bow to the dictates of their station, and meeting after years of severance, the last thing Maglor wished to see Maedhros doing was dance the polite dance of a formal gathering. He himself would remain at the feast, of course, but who would care if the eldest prince of the House of Fëanor, and the eldest son of the High King disappeared to take counsel in high matters? Both were warriors and Princes. Duty lay heavy on them.

Glorfindel seemed to read his thoughts.  
''Fanari is as a sister to Ecthelion and I, and she knows us well.''

Maglor raised his brows.

"She knows," Glorfindel confirmed softly. "And will say naught."

"For that, I thank thee, lady," Maglor smiled. "It was a long ride. We cannot pass through Doriath and the lands are wild and dangerous. Thou hast earned my gratitude and friendship, Lady Fanari."

''Let thy days here renew thee,'' Glorfindel said. ''And Maedhros, also, for I feel as if we wait for the gates of the Hells to open, and then we will need all our strength, and strength is always greater when it is rooted deep in love.''

''Love is a sweet spring to drink from, if one can find it,'' Maglor murmured, his eyes distant for a moment, then with a lighter tone, to break the somber mood: ''So, thou dost not wear the brooch I gave thee, lady? And it was my favorite. I am wounded.'' He winked aside at Glorfindel.

Fanari looked as if her face were suspended over a brazier, and he smiled to show he jested. Her eyes stared into his for a long moment and then she said breathlessly: "I keep it, my lord, but it is a brooch for a warrior."

''I but teased thee,'' Maglor reassured her. ''I can well imagine that one does not flaunt the badge of the Fëanorions.'' His lips curved a little in bitter self-mockery.

''I do not care for that,'' Fanari stated. ''When the one who is worthy to wear it comes, he shall bear it on his shoulder and with pride.''

''Worthy of it?'' His brows rose as he looked at Glorfindel. ''Then I will trust thy judgment, lady.''

~~~

Glorfindel found Fanari much later, sitting on her balcony, looking out at the dark sea. She had offed her gowns and jewels and wore a night shift of pale silk, her hair unbound.

"I need to speak with thee."

There were no lamps lit, but he could sense the faint stiffening of her shoulders as if she braced herself against the expected blow. He sat down and slipped an arm about her shoulders.

"I know," she whispered.

"I saw how thou didst look at Maglor. My dear, there are some things I cannot tell thee, but if Maglor had favored women he would have wed long ago in Aman, as would I."

"Yes," she agreed.

Her fingers were clenched tight around something. She opened them slowly, and the faint light caught sparks from the gold and gems of the brooch.

"I knew this evening, watching him." She raised one hand to her eyes. "I am not weeping because he would not look on me with desire, truly. At Mereth Aderthad when I saw him, I felt a darkness about him, it seemed he stood within it and gleamed like a candle in a night without end."  
Glorfindel saw the glint of tears on her cheeks.  
"What is it?" she asked. "The Doom? The Oath?"

"I do not know," he said. "But I have felt it too. What else hast thou seen?"

Her head shook once, sharply as if she tried to throw something away from her mind.  
"Fire," she said, soft as the night-breeze. "There is always fire, and he is alone in the dark." ~

~~~

  


  


  
**   
Chapter End Notes:   
**   


  


*Naltanárya - My fire-radiance - Quenya

  



	6. City Of Legend

  
**City of Legend. **   


_"Gondobar am I called, and Gondothlimbar, The City of Stone, and the City of the Dwellers in Stone; Gondolin the Son of Stone and Gwarestrin am I named, The Tower of the Guard; Gar Thurion or the Secret Place, for I am hidden from the eyes of Melkor..*."_

A city of beauty. 'Glingal', the ''Hanging Flame'', the image of Laurelin, fashioned by Turgon himself of topaz and strings of gold and set upon the Gate of Gold. Towers like needles of alabaster and silver were reached by marble stairs bordered by balustrades, beside which traceries of water fell from Amon Gwareth to the plain. The wide streets had kerbs of marble, and great houses stood in courts and gardens. The squares were lit with fountains and birds sang in the trees.

A city of many waters. There were springs on the hill which the Noldor channeled into cuttings and fountains which ran through gardens and beside the streets. A place of light and beauty and strength, most fabled city of the Elder days, which are gone.

Here they came, when the city was completed, vanishing in the nights, leaving Vinyamar deserted, as it would be until the ruin of Beleriand; yet with tokens left there for one unborn to find.

The Ecoriath cupped the vale of Tumladen like protective hands of stone. Once there had been a lake here which had vanished, leaving the land around the city fertile. Vineyards climbed the foothills and even when the mountains were snow-blanketed, often none fell in the vale. The Noldor mined for marble and minerals in the hills, and brought them forth to adorn their city. In the tumults of the shaping of Arda, Tumladen and the Encircling mountains had been blessed with riches.

Turgon's people settled and and their warriors trained, and children were born who grew and wed in their turn, for Gondolin was a haven and at peace.

On the first true morning of completed Gondolin, Glorfindel stood upon the high wall of his house, and watched the sun rise over the mountains. The city sang back at the dawn with color and music and his hair shone as he threw back his head and greeted it.

Glorfindel had been faced with a choice and love for another, from whom he was now separated, but loyalty to Turgon had brought him to Gondolin.

His eyes rose to a shape flying very high above: Thorondor, or another of the Eagles was passing across the jeweled city. Those great birds were as sure a watch upon the mountain walls as any guard.

''We will live here in glory,'' he murmured and yet, beyond the hidden city were those he loved and he sent out a thought to them on the morning winds, before entering the door of the tower rising like vast pillar above him. He passed down a hall banked on one side with long windows, down another shallow flight of steps and into his private chambers.

Servants were just emerging, his castellan watching over them, they having taken in food and wine. They bowed.

''My thanks,'' Glorfindel smiled as he walked in to his outer room where emerald and gold hangings shone and the floor and walls sparkled with semi-precious stones inlaid into gold-veined marble.

''Yes, Ofelmo?'' He sat down at a table laid with food and wine. ''I will see the household after I have dressed.'' He took the sheaf of vellum and flicked through it.

''My people in the mining guild...Locations have been allotted. My warriors...then you will deal with the growers and domestic staff, for,'' he glanced at the water-clock. "I meet with the king at the fourth bell."  
Turgon was to consecrate the city that day. "All my House will come, of course."

"I would like to thank thee, my lord," the castellan said. "As would all thy household, for this place, for what thou hast done."

"I did nothing, Ofelmo." Glorfindel kept his regret buried very deep. "Ulmo guided Turgon here and we have all had a part in it."

***

On the journey from Vinyamar, silent, secret, he had remained with his household, and the day of their arrival had been filled with business. Then, when night came, the stars had shone so bright that none wished to sleep. Glorfindel loved his people, and his first duty was to see them safe and settled. This meant he had not been with Ecthelion, who had his own duties, for some time.

He smiled wryly as he walked down to the council-chamber, wondering, as he often had, if anything would have happened between them had it not been for Fëanor. Sometimes he felt as if part of that fire had remained with him, or had ignited something which had been sleeping.  
Whatever the reason, his desire for Ecthelion had blazed after Fëanor's touch, and Glorfindel had decisively broken the Valarin laws. Most people were aware of their relationship, which they did not conceal, save on ceremonious occasions.

So, on that last long journey from Nevrast which had to be watched over, lead, organized and disciplined, Glorfindel had spoke little to his lover, concerning himself with the needs of his people. He and Ecthelion had ridden up and down the companies, checking the gait of horses, the wheels of the wagons, conferring with the King. And now, they were here.

_The beginning of a new life._

Among the messages on his desk was one which read only: ''Ride with me tomorrow.''

Aredhel. Glorfindel was concerned about her. She was only here because Gondolin was deemed safer than any other realm. Fingolfin had asked his daughter to go. Glorfindel wondered how long it would be before she became restless, wanted to visit Fingon or her father or cousins, far in the east. He penned a note back, saying he would meet her at noon.

***

At the hour appointed he rode to the palace and walked through the wide halls, where he was admitted to the King's chambers. Going down on one knee he inclined his head to the King before bowing to Ecthelion with a private smile and the three of them sat down to speak.

It was a joyous day filled with hope. The sun shone full on Gar Ainion as Turgon thanked Ulmo and to Ilúvatar and asked their blessing on the city. Glorfindel would long treasure it in memory.  
Memory was a curse...

Evening sunlight brought forth a blaze of colours from the towers and pinnacles and walls of Gondolin as he returned to his own house to find Orrorë, Ecthelion's castellan, waiting in his study.

''Is aught amiss?'' he asked, as he closed the door.

''I bear a message from my lord,'' Orrorë handed over the sealed vellum.

_It has been long. If thou art free of duties, this evening, I command thee! Come to me. _''

_Commands me, does he? _

''Shall I carry a reply from thee, lord?'' Orrorë inquired.

''I will take a message in person.'' A faintly wicked smile lit Glorfindel's face as he turned to open the door. ''If thy Lord asks, tell him there was no message.'' He paused as as he heard Ofelmo speaking in the hall and frowned. "Salgant."

Salgant had become an irritation. No, he corrected himself. Salgant had _always_ been an irritation. He made it clear, although never to Glorfindel and Ecthelion, that he disapproved of their relationship, and was wont to remark to Turgon that their relationship should be prohibited in Gondolin, lest it bring doom upon the city.  
"I am not here - or rather by the time thou dost step out I will not be, so it will be no untruth."  
And suddenly, he was gone into the garden and when he reached the wall, he jumped, caught the top of it and sprang lightly over to vanish in a lilt of gilt hair. Orrorë smiled after him, having no love for Salgant himself.

The people were surprised to see the Lord of the Golden Flower still in ceremonial robes, running down the wide ways. He was hailed more than once and out of courtesy halted, since one of them was Fanari.

''I cannot tarry, my dear.'' He smiled down at her.

''Why art thou chasing through the streets like a child whom has escaped his lessons?'' she asked with amusement. "I heard no alarum."

''Salgant came to my house.''

"Thou art running from Salgant?" Her eyes brimmed with laughter. "Oh! Craven!"

"His words are like to bore me to sleep." He winked and she waved him on, turning to say something to her handmaid. He heard both of them laughing.

~~~

Fanari, He thought as he walked, his smile fading. He knew her heart. When they had removed from Nevrast, she had bid farewell to her dreams. He had seen her fall in love with Maglor on her Begetting Day celebration. His words to her then had been to soften the blow she would surely feel when she realized the Fëanorion did not look on her with desire.  
But she had already known.

Maglor had come one more time to Vinyamar after that first visit. He had spoken to Fanari kindly, and she had responded with friendly warmth. Yet she was still in love with him, Glorfindel knew, and it was more than unrequited love. She continued to fear for him and Glorfindel knew why. Some shadow loomed over Maglor, blotting out the light and leaving him shining, alone, under it.

Alone...

Now, in Gondolin, Fanari had only her dreams.

~~~

Reaching Ecthelion's mansion he scorned to use the gate and went over the wall like a cat, running even as he hit the grass, then springing to catch the baluster of the private chambers. He pulled himself up, boots noiseless on the marble, hair in in untended, spiraling gold, eyes alight as he drew back the shimmering drapes.

The chambers shone silver, and walls and floor sparkled tiny points of light. Glorfindel, as he trod across the carpets, looked wild, dangerous, a flush of hunger across his cheeks, the silk of the shirt clinging to his wide shoulders and chest with the heat of his body.  
He drew his garments off and let them fall to the floor, jerking back the hangings.  
The bedroom was empty. A look of challenge gleamed in his eyes and he marched into the bathing room. Ecthelion was not there either. He considered a moment, and walked onto the balcony.

Ecthelion lay on a pile of cushions on the grass below, naked and beautiful and deliberately provocative; the river of black hair loose, long thighs parted. Glorfindel dropped from the balcony.

''A tempting offering,'' he murmured, as he crawled up Ecthelion's body. He heard the laugh which became a groan and raised his head to the offered kiss, as Ecthelion raised his legs, and Glorfindel buried himself deep.

And _this_ was mastery, feeling his lover respond, clench around him, arch against him, cry out. It was a savage lovemaking, climbing ever higher into unbearable pleasure which when it broke, shattered them both.

Glorfindel's breath hitched as he let himself down onto the cushions and gazed up. There were stars overhead.

'' A good way to end this day,'' he said. Aftershocks ripped through him.

"I though thou wouldst never come."

Glorfindel laughed, propping himself on his arm.  
"Anticipation is always a thrill." He saw the white gleam of Ecthelion's teeth in the dimness and reached over, thrust his hands into the dark hair.

" So, our new life..."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"Then prove it to me." Ecthelion slid a thigh over Glorfindel's hips. "Let me take thee."

Tension slammed between them like a sheet of iron.

"A new life, is it? Or do we bring _ him _ even here?"

Glorfindel pushed himself against Ecthelion's groin. They writhed against one another, close as lovers, faces like enemies.

"After _ him _, what - thou dost think no-one else can satisfy thee?" Ecthelion growled.

"I do not know." Glorfindel thrust again, felt the response. "But I do know this: I did not love him, but he changed me."  
He heard bitter, breathless laughter.

"Ah yes, Golden One, he changed thee and thou didst change me, and I _ want _ thee."

"No-one possesses me."

Ecthelion cursed. Their lips met and their bodies fought one another in an increasingly violent rhythm until the fire spilled over and the stars above burned in their blood.

"I do love thee," Glorfindel said roughly in the aftermath and heard a sigh hiss through Ecthelion's teeth.

"I know it. Thou art my friend, dearer to me than a brother. I trust thee more than any. I need thee. And yet Fëanor will ever be between us." ~

~~~

 

* From Book of Lost Tales II  



	7. The First Shadows

**The First Shadows**

~ Turgon had given the name Ondolindë to his city, which in the Quenya tongue meant _Rock of the Music of Water,_ for their were many springs upon the hill of Amon Gwareth. In Sindarin the name became the one known in lay and legend: _Gondolin,_ the Hidden Rock.

Its towers were white and tall and Belthil and Glingal, the images Turgon wrought of the Two Trees, seemed to shed light over all. Indeed, in its beauty the city rivaled Tirion and was built for that purpose, the memory of something lost to the Exiles.

Shut out from Aman, under a Doom, yet of all the realms of the Exiles Gondolin would stand the longest. Beyond the great houses and towers, waterfalls poured over crystal and onyx, serpentine and agate. On the leveled plain the warriors trained and drilled, for although when it was built and shut, the city seemed unassailable, Turgon still demanded that his army be battle-ready.

Glorfindel's gold etched armor flashed under the sun as he raised a hand to look out over the plain where a troop of mounted cavalry galloped back toward the city. He halted, his knights at his back and smiled, a flash of white teeth under the gold helm as Ecthelion's host approached, all white and silver and a crystal glitter. His smile blazed back, and they saluted, Lieutenant to Lieutenant.

_ So formal._ Glorfindel winked before setting his heels to his mount's side and leading his warriors out.

_ Perhaps not later,_ came the reply.

Silver steel was Ecthelion, matched to the blazing Sun of Glorfindel. Iluin and Ormal, they were called, after the great lamps which had once lit the world in the Ages before the Two Trees.

Gondolin was a tapestry woven of beauty, but soon one thread would be plucked free by passion, and that thread would unravel others, and they would fray and bring down glory in fire.

Just one moment of memory.

***

Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, born with fire in her eyes and strength in her soul, could not long sit and weave, nor would she take a husband. In Aman she had loved to ride and run and wander through the forests and hills, her raiment of white glowing under the black of her long hair.

''What of thee? Thou art not restless here, even a little?'' she asked of Glorfindel one morning. ''We are closed away while the wars and the triumphs of Middle-earth pass us by.''

''Aredhel, I am rarely idle,'' Glorfindel smiled. ''I have many duties.''

''Gondolin is fair,'' she admitted. ''Yet I long to ride and hunt the wide lands as I did before we came here.''  
She walked to the colonnade, leaned against a pillar. ''Turgon will not let me leave. I have asked him and I believe that thou likewise advise against it.'' A brow arched.

''The King permits none to leave; that edict applies to us all, Aredhel,'' Glorfindel said. ''We thrive here, and are hidden until the times comes, as it will. Is it not well to have an army in this secret place hidden from Morgoth, yet so close to him?''

''So, Gondolin is a hope? A hidden jewel?'' She threw back her dark hair. ''I wish to visit Fingon. Just a visit. It is not so very far, and is there not still peace?''

Long had the King denied her pleas yet ever did she ask. And at the last Turgon, worrying she would fall into lassitude, yielded, saying:  
''I forebode no good will come of this, Aredhel, but if thou wilt, then I will send Ecthelion, Glorfindel and Rog to guard thee, and only to our brother wilt thou go.''

Aredhel's eyes sparked.  
''Once I am free from Gondolin, I will go where I desire. Thou art my brother. I am not thy servant.'' Then her expression calmed and she smiled. ''But as thou wilt. I will go to visit Fingon.''

''Guard her well,'' Turgon enjoined his warriors. ''Morgoth may be held in the north, but Middle-earth has many dangers, and for all my sister's courage, she has ever been sheltered.''

''We will escort her safely to Fingon, sire,'' Glorfindel promised.

Long was he to remember that vow. That broken vow.

And so they left the Hidden City, but when they came to the Fords of Brithiac, Aredhel, whose face was flushed and lovely with exhilaration said: ''And now, turn south, I wish to find the sons of Fëanor. I have not seen Celegorm for so long.''

"We are to take thee to Fingon," Glorfindel reminded her. "Thou didst tell the King that thou wouldst seek him only."

"I did not swear to it," she responded swiftly. "What wilt thou do then, carry me back to Gondolin? I _ stifle _ there! And thou knowest it!"

"No. Thou didst not swear," Ecthelion said. "Clever of thee. Was this ever thy plan?"

"Thou art sworn to protect me," she smiled unabashedly. "Wherever I go. And thou wilt exceed thy duty if thou wouldst force me to return."

"Hells, we _should_ force thee. We should carry thee bound and gagged." Glorfindel recognized the fey look in her eyes, her mood transferred to her mount who curveted, ready to spring away. He met Ecthelion's eyes and Rog's, weighing their options. Turgon was not the only one to be concerned that Aredhel felt curbed in Gondolin.

''But thou wilt not, and perhaps Fingon will be in Himring, with Maedhros.'' Aredhel pressed her advantage.

_ I also wish to know what passes in the world without._ Glorfindel raised a hand. "Listen, lady, this is no ride for pleasure, the lands are dangerous and wild. Thou wilt remain with us at all times, do not stray away."

Light flared in her eyes. She moved her horse close and reached out a hand to touch his face.  
"I am not a fool, Glorfindel. I will be guided by thee." A mock-demure smile curved her mouth. He shook his head at her, nodded to the others.

~~~

At length they approached the margins of Doriath, and since they knew that none might enter without the permission of the King or Queen, they followed the border. Their movements were noted, and it was not long before two warriors emerged from the trees as if through gleaming mist and walked toward them with hands raised in greeting.

One was tall with silver hair and a beautiful face. He carried a magnificent bow of black yew wood. The other was strongly built and dark. The third looked much like the archer save his hair bore gold among the paler strands.

''Mablung, I am named,'' the dark man said. ''And here are Beleg, called Cúthalion, and Amdir*, his son. I cannot allow thee into the realm. None who bear the blood of the Kinslaying at Alqualondë may pass within the Girdle. Yes I recognize thy charges, Ecthelion of the Fountain, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower and Rog of the Hammer of Wrath. I saw thee at Mereth Aderthad.''

Glorfindel noted the speculation in the Sindars eyes, for it was known that Turgon and his folk had vanished from Nevrast and none knew whither they had gone. But the Noldor said nothing and the Iathrim looked them over with clear, steady gazes. _Lechind, _ the flame eyed, glittering and arrogant, proud as mighty kings, yet there was no discourtesy in their manner and Ecthelion inclined his head politely.

''I remember thee, Mablung. We understand. We seek not to enter, but look for the lands where the sons of Fëanor abide. We conduct the Lady Aredhel, daughter of Fingolfin to her kinsman, Lord Celegorm.''

''We may not break the Laws of my land, as thou wouldst not.'' It was Beleg who spoke, his voice mellow and calm. ''But we may direct thee. The fastest way to the land of Celegorm lies on the paths through Dimbar and along the North march of Doriath, where thou wilt come to the Bridge of Esgalduin and the Fords of Aros. Beyond that are the lands behind the Hill of Himring. That is where we believe Celegorm Fëanorion dwells. Yet it would be wiser for thee to return whence thou didst come. It is a perilous road.''

Aredhel shook her head impatiently. ''I have guards, and is not the land at peace?'' She turned to the others. ''I ride on.''

"We have sworn to guard thee, lady," Glorfindel said, but grim-faced.

"The land is dangerous," Beleg protested softly. "Especially nigh to the way that thou must go."

''I am no child. I can wield a blade and bow,'' Aredhel said through her teeth. ''Now let us go, since we are denied a safe road!''

''Hold,'' Beleg called as they wheeled. ''Take heed. Drink not from the fell streams of Nan Dungortheb, for they will bring madness and despair to thee. Fill thy water skins in clear Mindeb and ride through the haunted land as fast as thou mayst, and in silence.''

''I thank thee, Lord Beleg.'' Glorfindel saluted and.

The Iathrim watched until they were out of sight.

~~~

So it was they came to that dangerous path which lead between the valleys of Ered Gorgoroth, and drew near to the region of Nan Dungortheb. When Ungoliant fled from Aman, she had come here and bred with foul creatures like herself, but lesser. The black sorcery of Sauron and the white power of Melian the Maia collided here and the very air was a danger to the heart and soul.

Shadows clung to them, recalling the darkness which had fallen on Valinor after the death of the trees, and from it came many sounds: whisperings, chitterings, other noises they had no name for. They drew their swords and rode alertly, and then Aredhel pressed ahead, with a hiss of irritation. One moment she was there, the next, her white robes vanished in the gloom.

''Aredhel !'' Glorfindel cried out and cursed.

''Keep within earshot of one another,'' Ecthelion ordered. ''Spread out, and search, she cannot be far.''

''We were told to be silent!''

''It cannot be helped now,'' Rog said angrily.

Glorfindel nodded, his face grim.  
''Aredhel!'' His voice seemed swallowed by the dank mists.

Long they searched, fearing she had drunk from the poisonous streams which trickled down thinly from the heights. Their cries brought a stealthy movement, as clusters of great eyes glowed like decay and monstrous limbs uncurled, creaking, as the creatures scented living flesh. Prey. Food.

Glorfindel's first intimation was a huge, many legged form rising out of the fog before him. His mount screamed, rearing, even as he leaped from its back, hit by a rank stench. He drove up with Sarambar and felt its point sink into hard flesh. There was a shriek, a convulsion of limbs, something lashed across his face, burning, and then he heard behind him another movement and span lightly aside.

Step by step he fought; there was no time to think, only the long-practiced moves which maimed and killed. He did not know that his aura acted as a beacon in that place, drawing the spiders toward him, only that he could scarce see through the cloying darkness, and that he was gradually being forced back, leaving twitching, wounded creatures to mark his passage from the ravines.

He heard water running behind him, and realized that the creatures were drawing back. Perhaps they had learned caution, or the river marked a boundary they would not cross. It was the Mindeb, where they had filled their water skins as Beleg had advised.  
Glorfindel strode into river as dawn blushed into the sky. It seemed years since he had seen daylight. He scrubbed vigorously at his face and hair, cleaning away the reeking ichor.

_Eru, let them have found their way back, _ he thought, and he waited. And waited, but saw and heard naught.

_Ecthelion, I would know hadst thou perished there, and it would take more than a misshapen spider to kill thee! _ So he told himself, as his heart labored in heavy strokes of doubt and fear – and fury, fury at himself for loosing his companions, for not having forced Aredhel back to Gondolin. And most of all he blamed himself for the brief moment of inattention that had allowed Aredhel to pass into the mists.

At last he turned, his soul heavy and walked westward. Some-one must bear this dire news to Turgon.  
The sun set, stars pricked out, and still Glorfindel strode on, sword in hand, until he saw, in the distance, a small dance of firelight. His heart jolted and he began to run silently.

A black shape hurtled into him and he went down, fighting, rolling with one who cursed and grunted as both tried to gain the upper hand.

Ecthelion's voice said, breathlessly: ''Glorfindel!''

''_Fool!_'' Surging to his feet Glorfindel shook his lover angrily. ''I felt thee, in my heart, but still I feared...'' Their lips met in wordless relief, before they stepped apart and stared at one another.  
''I lost her. And Rog.''

''It is as much my blame as thine,'' Ecthelion said. In the firelight he looked wayworn, steely and dangerous, there was a makeshift bandage wrapped around his head.

''How will we tell Turgon? How _can_ we tell him? It was my fault.''

''Enough. Turgon, Eru, I know not...He feared this. I know he did. And he was right to.''

The fire was tiny under the great stars, there was no wind, and no sound to alert the Noldor to the approach of the one who spoke from the darkness.  
''Peace, lords of the _Golodhrim_.''

Beleg stepped into the circle of firelight, Mablung beside him.

Glorfindel's intent, borne of grief and rage was so clear to the Iathrim that he found himself looking down the shaft of an arrow.

_I never even saw him move! _

''Peace,'' Beleg repeated. ''We have heard of your plight, we are bound by our laws, but we bring you succor.''

Mablung lowered a pack, his eyes appraising.  
''Hast you not had enough of battle for this day, Lord of the Golden Flower?'' he asked.

''Hadst thou permitted us to enter Doriath, we would not have lost Aredhel or Rog!'' Ecthelion bit out through his teeth. ''Thou dost expect a welcome here?''

"As I said, we are bound by the Laws of Doriath. No doubt thou dost adhere to laws that must not be broken." Beleg's nocked arrow was unwavering. Glorfindel thought of Turgon's edict that none might pass in or out of Gondolin, and his face hardened.  
''Forgive me,'' he said, hard-ridden by guilt. ''But failed the lady, and our companion and must take this news to our King.''

''Our Queen's eyes cannot penetrate the shadows of Nan Dungortheb,'' Mablung said. ''Or she would have sent word with us. But come now, take rest and ease, at least, before thou dost go on.''

Glorfindel exchanged a long glance with Ecthelion and then nodded.  
''We thank thee.''

All their gear had been lost with the horses, and they made good use of the gifts the Sindar had brought, Lembas, made by the Queen, a smooth, rich wine, a cool unguent for their wounds.

''Much has been surmised of the people of Turgon,'' Beleg said, his voice weaving into the silence of the night. ''Many say that he took his folk south, away from the threat of the Enemy, and yet I see now that cannot be true, for we watched thee approach from the north.''

Glorfindel leaned his arms on his knees and looked up.  
''We also are bound by laws, as thou hast guessed,'' he replied. ''But to thee I say this, Turgon has not deserted his people in the northlands.''

~~~

The Iathrim departed at dawn, even as a tall, disheveled and burning eyed personage appeared out of the sunrise in the east.

"Rog!" Glorfindel and Ecthelion cried together, meeting him and forcing him to undergo their exuberant treatment of his wounds.

''I have seen no sign of her,'' Rog said heavily and cursed as Glorfindel swabbed a cut. ''No horse, no clothing, nothing.''

''I did not expect it,'' Ecthelion murmured. ''Eat and rest a while, it is a long road back to Gondolin.''

~~~

''I knew in my heart evil would come to pass if she left the city!'' Turgon's voice echoed through the chamber. His hand slammed against a pillar and he bowed his head.

Glorfindel, Ecthelion and Rog stood motionless, hearts ablaze with shame.

"Sire, we await thy judgment," Glorfindel said at last.

''The blame is not thine.'' Turgon spoke without raising his head. ''Aredhel chose her own path, and see what has come to pass? She was in my charge and I should have kept her here, whatever her desires. Do not let this guilt be upon thy shoulders, my friends. I have need of thee. My anger is not at thee, but she was my sister and I loved her, and her restlessness has been the death of her.''

_No, the blame_ is _mine,_ Glorfindel thought. Aredhel might not have gone astray in Nan Dungortheb had his attention been on her. They had been warned it was a place of great peril, and even had they not been told, their senses would have flared at the clinging shadows, the scents, the noises in the gloom. And as they rode, their eyes glowed ever the brighter as if in direct defiance against the evil.

Rog had the rearguard, Aredhel was amidmost and Ecthelion and Glorfindel were at the front, one hand on their sword hilts.  
And he had found himself thinking of that one who would always be missing. Little loved, feared by many, but there still seemed a gap in the world with Fëanor gone from it. That thought had submerged him in the firestorm he had felt in Tirion with all its terrible and glorious shame.

When he shook off those thoughts he saw the white tail of Aredhel's mount disappearing in the gloom, and she was gone.

He was culpable. He had allowed himself to be distracted by fire-bright memories in a place of darkness.

_ I think I will pay in full measure for my mistake in Nan Dungortheb before time is full wrought..._ ~

~~~

  


  


  
**   
Chapter End Notes:   
**   


  


*Amdir was the Sindarin father of Amroth and hence ancestor to Elgalad. In my stories Amdir was the son of Beleg, as was Oropher.

Iathrim - Elves of Doriath

  



	8. The Dark Seed

**The Dark Seed.**

~ Glorfindel left the king and met with Idril and Fanari who were strolling in the palace gardens. A fountain played close by and a bird piped, solemn and mellow in the shade of an apple tree.

Idril Celebrindal was the fairest of all the women of Gondolin, golden haired through the Vanyarin blood of her mother. Turgon trusted his Lieutenants' with his daughter, but Idril was not Aredhel, she was content here, indeed she seemed sometimes to be waiting. She was not married. She said she would know the love of her heart when she saw him. When she spoke of it a smile would curve her mouth.

The womens voices were pitched low. Some-one was playing a harp and they were listening to the music when, in the distance, a growing murmur of voices brought them all to a halt, tilting their heads.

And then one name began to make itself clear. One name , over and over.  
''Aredhel! Aredhel!"

The women stared at each other, threw their bliauts over their arms and ran after Glorfindel, through the gardens, up shallow flights of marble steps, and along wide hallways. The double doors of the Great Hall were flung wide, a great press of people within and others outside.

They made way for Glorfindel, and the women followed in his wake. He halted as he saw Turgon, risen from his chair, eyes fixed on the two who stood before him.

One was Aredhel. There she stood, she whom all had feared dead, her black hair unbound and falling in webs against her pale cloak, cheeks stained with colour as if she had been running. Beside her stood a young man, tall, black haired, with her grey-black eyes, and those eyes were wide with awe. He kept mute as Turgon embraced his sister and as she spoke, silence spread across all the people.

She told of becoming lost in a deep, dark forest of huge trees and wandering until she came to dwellings within, where an Elf had greeted her. Eöl, he had said he was named, of the kin of Thingol of Doriath.

And Aredhel had wed him. Her tone was almost defiant, her gaze flashed to Glorfindel who raised his brows.

''I was lost and far from home,'' she explained. ''And indeed he spoke me fair.''

Her brother said naught, glancing at the young man beside her.

"I was content for a time." She looked fondly and proudly aside. ''This is my son. I named him Lómion, but his father called him Maeglin.''

But as the years went on, Aredhel said, she became restless. Eöl shunned the sunlight, and she felt trapped unable to walk under the sky. She remembered Amon Gwareth and its waters and lawns of green grass, and began to yearn for her home. When Maeglin grew, he said he would be her guard to find Gondolin. Aredhel had grasped at the chance and fled with him while Eöl was gone.

Turgon drew his sister into his arms again and then turned to Maeglin.

''Welcome, Maeglin, to Gondolin. I greet thee as sister-son and that is the honor thou shalt hold in my realm.''  
Which was the very highest.

His people came forward then, and wine was brought. Aredhel sat close to her brother, gleaming with vivacity and relief. But Maeglin's eyes were elsewhere.

Glorfindel saw it begin then, when Maeglin's glance lit upon Idril. He knew the expression well enough. Then the lustrous eyes came to him. And widened.

There was a gleam of crystal and silver in the doorway, the high plume of Ecthelion showed as he entered.

"Sire, we have taken a man coming down the Dry River," he said. "He claims to be the Lady Aredhel's husband. Although by Law, we are bound to slay him, because of these peculiar circumstances, I kept him under guard until I could know thine orders."

''I feared this.'' Aredhel rose, her eyes flashing back to Turgon. ''Eöl has followed us for we tarried too long in leaving. He is my husband and father of my son. Lead him here to the Kings judgment, if the King so wills.''

Turgon nodded. ''Yes, Ecthelion, bring him to me. Restrain him, but hurt him not.''

A silence fell in the great chamber. Glorfindel moved in silence to stand close to the King and felt Maeglin's eyes rest on him again.

The man who was lead in was tall, dark haired and grim of face, his wide shoulders slightly stooped for, as Aredhel had told them, he was a great smith, and was often bent over his anvil. But his face was stern and noble, his eyes hard as they looked about the vast hall and returned to the King, who courteously rose, as all kings of the Eldar were wont to do. Turgon extended his hand, greeting the arrival as a kinsman.

''I welcome thee, Eöl, husband of my sister. Here thou may dwell now at thy leisure, and do as thou wilt. There is but one law which I must enforce: thou wilt not depart. I am sure my sister has told thee of the edicts which govern all in the city.''

A light smoldered up like ignited embers in the deep eyes, and Eöl stepped a pace back in unmistakable repudiation. Whispers at his ill-manners fluttered around the hall.

''I am not of the _Gondolindrim,_ and as such I do not acknowledge thy laws,'' he said hot and fierce. ''By what right dost thou come here, seize lands and set bounds? This is the land of the Teleri, and to it thou hast brought strife and war, thou slayers of my kin! I am no spy and I care not where this city lies. I will depart when I will. If my wife,'' his eyes flicked to Aredhel, standing tall and still and there was a sneer in the word. ''indeed wishes to remain, let her do so. Going back into this gilded cage, she will fade and this time die. But Maeglin is my son, and he I claim! Come Maeglin, leave these kinslayers, and return with me. I command it!''

Maeglin's piercing eyes held his father's but he said nothing, then faintly, he shook his head.

"Come, or be thee accursed!" Eöl slashed at him.

At the King's side, Glorfindel's hand, fell to his sword hilt. The gesture was mirrored precisely by Ecthelion and the King's face hardened. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and hard.  
''I will not bandy words with thee, Dark Elf! Who defends the wild woods where thou dost live? It is Noldor steel that permits thee to wander free there, or long would thy smith craft have earned the thralldom in the forges of Angband!" His eyes challenged the other's. "Here I am king and whether thou dost will it or no, thou wilt abide by my laws or my doom. This choice I give thee and also thy son, to abide here, or to die here.''

Now the silence was heavy and breathless, and still Maeglin had said nothing. A nerve tightened somewhere within Glorfindel. Yet Eöl was unarmed...

On that thought the Dark Elf moved. Voices cried out in warning as his hand, swift as a serpent's, delved under his cloak and emerged holding a short spear. He threw it in one smooth motion, crying:  
''Then I will take death, _kinslayer_, for me and for mine!''

Aredhel's sprang forward. Turgon reached out, his hand grazing her cloak, she was was swift in her fear – and the shaft meant for Maeglin struck her in the shoulder, throwing her back into his arms.

Glorfindel and Ecthelion leaped down, one crack across the jaw Eöl received from a hand like a mace and then a sword hilt came down on his head, stunning him.

''Set him in bonds.'' Turgon's voice was terrible in its wrath. ''Bring my sister to her chambers. Healers!''

Aredhel breathed shallowly. ''My brother, be not harsh,'' she whispered. ''I know Eöl. He could never live in here...''

''We will speak of this later.'' The King kissed her brow and with one swift move, pulled forth the spear. Aredhel cried out.

''Father.'' Idril knelt beside him. ''I will sit with her. Fanari? Come. Please sire, be not so wroth, do not compound one vile act with another.''

Turgon's eyes blazed.  
''I have said we will speak of it later, my daughter.''

~~~

Later.  
there was to be no later.

Fanari ran from Aredhel's chambers to find the King. The night had grown old and weary before the dawn, and the palace was quiet. Turgon was in his room and with him, she was surprised to see, was Maeglin. She bowed quickly.

''Sire, my lord. Thou must come. The wound that Aredhel bears has festered. The healers think the spear was poisoned.''

Aredhel tossed feverishly in her bed. The dressing was drawn back from her shoulder, and black spokes as from a dark star spread outward from the lesion. There was a foul smell in the air. The only poison the Noldor had so far seen was that with which the orcs used on their weapons. Idril looked up, face grave, golden hair disheveled. She shook her head, tears hanging on her lashes.

Thus Eöl's doom was set.

~~~

On the north side of Gondolin was Caragdûr, that great precipice of black rock, and under a clear sky which mocked grief, they lead the Dark Elf to its brink. Turgon, tall and stern and anguished, strode before them all. Behind came Eöl, bound and escorted by Glorfindel and Ecthelion, and he cursed. After came Rog and Penlod and the other great lords all in armor, and after them walked Idril, her hands clasping Fanari's arm, and Maeglin, still silent.

The rock was smooth as polished obsidian, falling sheer from the walls. And there did Eöl speak his last words, cursing his son, that he would yet meet the same death as he. Under their helms, Glorfindel and Ecthelion's face were like carven stone and as pitiless as they cast him over that terrible edge.

He made no sound as he fell.

Idril looked away. Fanari loosed a long breath. A high, cold wind billowed through Glorfindel and Ecthelion's hair as they stood like statues of judgment.

Somewhere overhead, came the call of a great eagle.

And thus was also Gondolin's doom set.

***

Not long after that day, Idril asked Fanari to come to the palace as one of her ladies. Fanari would have quarters there and effectively remove from her parents house.

''Wilt thou go?'' Glorfindel asked her.

''Idril is my friend. Of course.''

"Wilt thou watch her?" he asked. ''And if anything troubles thee, speak to me or to Ecthelion, for this may be nothing. Or something.''

Fanari looked at him thoughtfully for a moment and murmured: ''It may also be delicate, may it not? Of course, Glorfindel.''

***

There was a bowl of yellow iris's on the windowsill of Idril's private chamber. They glowed like her hair as she sat down opposite Fanari.

''I am glad thou art come.''

''I am happy to come. I know something troubles thee, wilt thou not speak of it? It is more than Aredhel's death, is it not?''

''I mourn for her and the King.'' Idril came to her feet again in a hush of silks. ''My father turns to Maeglin, not to me.''

''Because he is all that is left of Aredhel,'' Fanari ventured.

''Oh, I am not jealous. It is good that he should have some comfort. It is Maeglin himself. He looks at me...he is my kinsman and yet he looks at me as if he would ...disrobe me with his eyes.'' There was a fine, high flush on her cheeks, as if she admitted to something shameful.

Fanari said nothing for a moment, then rose and poured wine and pressed it into Idril's hands. She was thinking of two cousins who likewise should not have loved, and yet did...but she said:  
''In Vinyamar, thou didst tell me of thy dreams of a lover with golden hair. Thou dost still have those dreams?''

''Yes. I still have them. And one day I know he will come, but even if I had no foresight, Maeglin is too close in kin to me.''

Fanari considered. Idril was, like her mother, a gentle lady. Her Vanyarin blood gave her a certain spiritual quality. Glorfindel's golden hair also came from the Vanyar, yet in everything else, Fanari thought, he was pure Noldo.  
Idril was loved by many, but she would not marry. She waited on a dream.

And then Maeglin had come, and even in one short year, he had risen in the Kings esteem. He was a warrior, a craftsman, a smith like his father had been and his mind was keen. In some he aroused jealousy, but others flocked to him, and he had gathered a large following, though Glorfindel and Ecthelion were not among them. They bowed to, and took orders from, no-one but their King.

''Does the King know?'' Fanari asked.

''My father loves Maeglin,'' Idril said with a hint of bitterness. "I thank Elbereth we are such close kin, or he would desire me wed to him. That is what he wants, Maeglin. It makes me feel unclean. It is twisted !"

Fanari embraced her, feeling her trembling, the quickened heartbeat of fear and anger.  
''He has not touched thee, has he?''

"No," Idril said quickly. "Nor has he said aught. But I am afraid that if Maeglin grows too close to the king, that he will believe he can have me. I wish thee close to me." She drew back and looked imploringly into Fanari's eyes. "I dare say nothing to my father. I do not wish to see Maeglin harmed or shamed for he has done nothing... yet. But I am afraid. Stay close to me. Sleep beyond my chamber.''

''Of course I will.''

~~~

Fanari began to watch Maeglin. A great villa had been built for him, but he was often at the palace, attending the evening feasts. And with him came those who had vowed their service and loyalty to him. One could see why. Fair of skin, dark of hair, grey eyed, he was indeed a fitting prince of the Noldor.

Fanari saw and she pitied him, for she believed that he did love Idril, at least in the earliest years. But he began to realize Idril found something sick and crooked in it. And the more powerful Maeglin became, the more his love darkened, until it turned that corner where love becomes hate, its close kin, and his eyes on her were dark and cold.  
He was too intelligent to ever touch Idril, and he grew to loathe Fanari, who was ever in her presence. She felt the weight of his eyes on her like black ice.

***

The glory of Gondolin far surpassed anything his mother had told him and when Maeglin saw it, he desired it.  
And, as Turgon gave him all, as if he were an heir, Maeglin began to realize that but for one circumstance, he could indeed _be_ Turgon's heir. But he said nothing. Those first seasons were a time of adjustment to him, and he spent many long hours with the King, who told him of the city, of the Lords, of the dreams sent by Ulmo which had lead him here.

Maeglin soon learned the hierarchy of the city: the King, Ecthelion of the Fountain, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower and the Lords of the other Houses. All had their own great mansions and folk sworn to them alone, all were loyal to the King.  
And, although Gondolin had seen no war, Maeglin noted that its army trained daily on the plain.

Within days of his arrival, Turgon created a House for him, and Maeglin chose sable for its color. It became a wealthy house and powerful, and Maeglin could have been mighty, a name of honor and not despite.  
Perhaps.  
For he was of the House of Finwë also, and none of them could escape that tangled weaving.

In the first season in Gondolin, he sought to know Glorfindel and Ecthelion better. He had heard much of them from Aredhel but, as the shining city itself, no words could do them justice.  
Ecthelion of the Fountain, a diamond glitter with eyes that blazed crystal and Glorfindel, golden as the sun and as radiant. They it had been who cast Eöl over Caragdûr, but this troubled Maeglin not at all.  
They were warriors, graceful and powerful, and although he had heard from his mother of their relationship, he saw nothing in their public interaction to prove it.  
These two and Idril were the foundations on which lay both Gondolin and the King's heart and trust. All three must be cultivated. Idril was clearly wary of him, but he doubted Glorfindel and Ecthelion feared any-one, not even the supposed anger of the Valar at their breaking of those ridiculous laws.

He arrived at Glorfindel's house at the second bell after dawn, and was lead to a chamber. Glorfindel was there, but he was not alone. Clad in a short robe, his hair wet from bathing, he sat on a cushioned settle, long fingers playing idly with Ecthelion's own damp hair. He rose without haste, without embarrassment.

''Maeglin. How may I serve thee?''

The resonant voice held complexities; there was a veil over the ice-blue eyes, a distance, as if Glorfindel reserved judgment. Maeglin had expected instant acceptance; he saw only a summing-up and strove to conceal his anger.

''I have heard much of both of thee from my mother.'' He bowed and accepted wine, aware of how Glorfindel's taut muscles moved under the silk, the length of long leg, the sparkle of dampness in the hollow of his throat. The atmosphere was charged with an almost languid eroticism and Maeglin felt himself grow hard.

''I hope we can know one another better, become friends.''

He did not doubt it for one moment. The King had already made it clear, in diverse ways that Maeglin already outranked any, even his own daughter.

''Thou art kin to Turgon,'' Glorfindel said. ''And we serve the House of Turgon. But our friendship? Such is earned, in time.''

''Thou wert long my mothers friends, wert thou not? Does such not merit friendship.''

"Yes, we were her friends, and we do not forget that she died for thee."

"Dost thou blame me?" Maeglin asked suddenly harsh.

"No," Glorfindel said. "Yet still, our friendship is not lightly given." And his eyes were opaque.

It would not be easy, Maeglin thought, seething as he left the house. And he learned more from those whom did not look with favor upon Glorfindel and Ecthelion's relationship, Salgant being the foremost among them. But Gondolin's very foundations rested on three pillars. The King was one, Ecthelion and Glorfindel, his Lieutenants, formed another, and his other Lords the third. It was solid, firm, yet Maeglin desired to insert himself, to meld himself with that gold and crystal pillar.

And then there was Idril...If he could have wed her, if the King had allowed it – and why hold to one foolish law and wink at his Lieutenants' breaking of another? – such a match would make him heir of the throne of Gondolin, and perhaps, in the turmoils of war, High King of the Noldor.

But the road to kingship would not be easy, indeed it might prove impossible. After Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and Fingon's death, Turgon took the high kingship of all the Noldor, until Fingon's son, the youthful Ereinion was of an age to assume the mantle.

But as yet, betrayal and doom were far away, a shadow that vanished if one looked at it directly, but lurked ever in the dark beyond the sunlight. ~

~~~


	9. A Prince's Duty

_''And wilt thou indeed follow me?'' The eyes blazed into his, twin Silmarilli fell and wild. There were never such eyes as his. ''I will wreak vengeance upon Morgoth and reclaim what he stole. I and my sons and mine own people if thou and thine are too weak!''_

_''I am not weak, and neither am I insane. He is **Vala,** Fëanaro! What: dost thou intend, to challenge him in single combat?''_

_''Thinks't thou I would not?''_

_''Nay, I know thou wouldst, and even thou wilt die.'' Echo's ran from the words._

_''Then I will die fighting!''_

~~~

Fingolfin came to his feet even before the dream passed away. The first sun was pushing back the shadows, but not even Anor could dispel those which lay as a caul over his heart.

His half-brother's voice seemed to linger like the struck note of a bell in the corners of the room. The sense of his presence was so intense that Fingolfin expected to turn and see him standing there in all his magnificence, with those eyes which could beckon him into sin, into love...

And Fingolfin would never accept his death. When Fëanor's light had vanished from the world, something in Fingolfin had died with him.

Nárë tauranya, _ dost thou burn alone in eternal night, so fair and so fell, leaving me alone? _

The knowledge came to him then, as he walked to the balcony and looked east across Ard Galen. It was a strange, easy knowledge, like a familiar voice calling his name.

_ I will die. There will be despair and madness and pain and the long dark...Oh, my brother._

_I too will die in battle. _

He pushed long fingers through the sleep-disheveled tresses of his black hair and raised his head proudly in challenge to the Dark.

He could not delay longer. He must speak to Fingon.

And there was something in the star-blue eyes then that only Fëanor, long gone, would have recognized. 

 

***

 

''But why?'' Fingon demanded. ''Why now? We are at peace, out fortresses and towers watch Angband, our leaguer is firm, strong. Morgoth has not stirred.''

''It will not last.'' Fingolfin stood at the great window and looked out. The silver birches and the mountain ash were beginning to dust the air with hints of green.

''Thou knowest this?'' Fingon asked, after a moment. ''Thou hast dreamed, as Turgon did?''

''Yes, and if aught were to happen to me when this peace breaks, then I know I would leave a worthy successor in thee. Thou hast proven thyself fearless, brave, a wise leader of thy people.''

''_Thou_ art our High King.'' Fingon slammed his hand flat on the marble table. ''We cannot loose thee.'' His eyes were hot, pained. ''And there is peace. I will not believe these premonitions. Father, I _cannot._''

''Thou hast seen Angband.'' Fingolfin met the fierce gaze levelly. ''We cannot assault the Hells of Iron, not with the force we posses. Angband was delved by Melkor himself. Thou hast done the greatest deed thyself in rescuing Maedhros. As yet, we cannot break its gates, we would be trapped there, or where my brother received his death wound, in Dor Daedaloth. We beleaguer Angband but as yet we cannot attack Morgoth. Thy cousins are not willing, not yet. Only Aegnor and Angrod are of like mind with me. And if we are not united we will be broken.''

Fingon closed his eyes for a moment. ''Maedhros has said we are not yet strong enough, and the arrow loosed too swiftly will not fly true. Yes, he _has_ seen within Angband, and that is why he wishes is to hold back as yet, bring more Men to our side. It is said there are many tribes still moving west, beyond the Ered Luin.''

''And meanwhile, who knows what Morgoth does in the deeps of the Hells? He brought forth the Urulóki, thou hast seen one, driven it back to its den, we know the orcs are numberless, but easy enough to kill. So divided we cannot yet take war _to_ Morgoth, but he, at any time, may bring war to _us_.''

''I know.'' Fingon raised a hand. ''Father...speak not of thine end, please. Speak not of doom when all has been so peaceful.''

''Then all I will say is that I am no King to sit idle while my people fight. If there is war, I will lead them, if I die _thou _ must lead, with Turgon vanished and safe. Thou art my heir, beloved son. And with that comes a duty.''

Fingon felt a pressure building in his chest. He lifted one hand where a ring glittered, ruby and amber on white gold.  
''I am _wed_ to Maedhros,'' He hissed. ''Thou wert there.''

Fingolfin leaned across the table, capturing the blue-silver gaze with his own, his voice low and vehement as he whispered: ''_I know._ For what reason dost thou think I gave thee the ring I made for my beloved damnéd brother? I also am bound to my life's end and beyond to one I should not love. Yet thy marriage is not recognized by our laws and I cannot make it acceptable. Most of our people _still_ believe it wrong and unhallowed for one man to lie with another, that physical union is sacred for the bringing forth of children. I cannot afford to be seen to break the laws. A King also is a servant to his people. Whatever _my_ beliefs, I have to rule, and the Noldor will not take thee as High King if thou art known to be Maedhros' spouse."  
"Thy brother is widowed and vanished, he cannot wed again, and he has a daughter and no sons. Who does that leave? Finrod, in Nargothrond, which is far from the north and I would not see him remove all his people from a place which is safe and fair. We must dwell here and I must be king and thou wilt come after me if I fall.'' He swept around the table and gripped his sons wide shoulders with both hands.  
''I _know _ and I understand. And in my eyes thy marriage is sanctified and true, but there is no place for it here and now. The Noldor must see thee take a wife and sire children.''

''It is to betray him,'' Fingon cried, then bowed his head against his father's shoulder. ''Tell me, then: How can I lie with a woman and get children?''

''There are...herbs, essences of plants which can inflame desire.'' At his son's startled expression, Fingolfin nodded. ''I too have been required to desire. Marry, sire children, then send her honorably away to safety, perhaps south to Círdan. I know thou wouldst not shame her or hold her up to ridicule.''

''I would not shame any woman, yet I _will_ shame myself,'' Fingon said bitterly. ''And who would wed me, unwilling, knowing I did not love them? For she would know, father.''

Fingolfin kissed his son's brow, feeling the denial burning through him.  
_ I am sorry, my dear son. I am sorry. But it has to be._

***

The Lady Rosriel, born since the exile, was unusual in the Noldoli in that her hair was a red-brown. Her grandsire was kin to Mahtan whose hair had carried reddish glints, and Fingon could not help wondering what moved his sire to choose one whose locks resembled Maedhros. Perhaps it was for that very reason, though no-one but his cousin had tresses of that glorious copper-bronze.

Rosriel was the daughter of Ornélion, one of Fingolfin's lords, whose fortress was south of Barad Eithel, and once Fingon formally met her he realized that she indeed did desire to wed, although he thought her father desired it more. Rosriel was ambitious and apparently ignorant of the rumored relationship between the two cousins. It was not common knowledge, and was tacitly ignored by those whom suspected. When Maedhros had removed to the east, most believed that the infatuation had now run its course; a brief, unholy union which had withered with separation.

The betrothal feast was held, and if Fingon seemed quiet and Rosriel cool, no-one appeared to notice except Fingolfin. The guests did however, expect Fingon to spend some time with his betrothed. He did not. He immediately rode to Himring, for he did not wish the news to reach Maedhros by any other than himself.

It was not, even in the years of Long Peace, an easy journey, since only the people of Finarfin's House might pass into the Girdle-fenced land of Doriath. But warriors had made a way over the years, which ran closest to the margins of that forest and furthest from the haunted dread of Nan Dungortheb. One crossed the stone bridge of Iant Iaur into Dor Dínen, the Silent Land, and thence over Arrosiach and into the lands of the Fëanorions'. It was, in the main, Fingon's own travels to see his cousin which had opened this route. There was no other way save to go far into the south and about the southernmost fringes of the Kingdom of Thingol and Melian.

His departure, so soon after his betrothal, was the first stone laid in a relationship which would prove, all too soon, to be bitter and ill-suited, another fruit of the Doom of the Noldor.  
While he was gone, whispers began to circulate of the cousins former relationship, and Ornélion spoke to his daughter. She vowed that Fingon would be weaned from such unnatural ways, just as her father, who hated the Fëanorions', had intended. Another seed of hate was planted. 

 

***

 

The great, flattened summit of Himring was perfectly suited for Maedhros' chief fortress, and the Noldor had leveled it further and raised a great palace there whose high, proud walls and towers flew the fiery banners of the House of Fëanor. It was ever windy and cool but within the palace was richness, warmth and comfort.

His own pennon flying over him, Fingon rode into the great inner ward. Servants ran to take the horses and baggage. He knew his arrival would have been seen by the sentries on the walls long ago.  
Maedhros would be expecting him. ~

***

''And all seems quiet,'' Maglor concluded, as Maedhros reached forward to pour wine. ''But I mislike that orc raid, it was to test our preparedness, I think.''

Some years before companies of orcs had attempted to break through the Pass of Aglon but were thrown back by Maedhros and Maglor, with Angrod and Aegnor and Men of the House of Bëor. It had been a brief and bloody battle, and the creatures had withdrawn or were slaughtered. Since then, a brooding peace had settled over the lands.

''I would agree with thee, but we were prepared, indeed what more can we do?''

''Perhaps Fingolfin is right when he says we should carry the war to Morgoth himself.''

Maedhros sat back.  
''I do not hold back out of fear.''

''No-one would think that,'' Maglor told him. ''But surely his spies know what we do here, how the Edain have added to our strength. But we know not what _He_ may be planning.''

''I have not forgotten our Oath, brother. We are stronger, yes, but when we meet Morgoth, I wish it to be a mighty blow that will crush him utterly. And I _ have _ seen Angband. As yet we have not strength enough....yes?'' He lifted his head as one of the door wards entered.

''My Lord, Prince Fingon's banners have been sighted.''

Maedhros tensed. The ring on his hand pulsed like a heartbeat.

Maglor knew what that ring signified; he was one of the few who did. Fingolfin had made it and gifted it to Fëanor, and when it was returned to him had passed it to his eldest son.  
Even in Aman he had guessed that his father and Fingolfin were closer than rumor had it or public display indicated. He himself had been seduced by his father's touch. The flood of sensation still resounded through his veins, entwined with unfading grief.

_Now dost thou begin to see? To feel? _

He still felt it, heard himself shamelessly begging. His own father...there should be more guilt but somehow, it seemed wholly unsurprising. Fëanor was not simply a man, a husband, a father. He made his own laws.

_Had made ..._ he remembered.

Ever the loss. Ever the ache in his heart.

_ If we reclaim the Silmarilli, still it will not bring thee back. _

He shook himself from his thoughts as he heard his brother order rooms prepared for his guests, and went with him to the battlements, looking south.

''This is unexpected.'' Maedhros rested his hand on the parapet. ''There have been no messages from Hithlum.''

Maglor smiled. ''Perhaps he simply wishes to see thee,'' he offered and received a quick, smiling look. 

The clatter of hooves sounded as the horses reached the paved track,and then they were in the ward and dismounting. Fingon came up the steps with a flying lilt of black hair, and walked towards his cousins.

Maglor embraced him warmly and then stood back watching as the tension between Maedhros and Fingon showed itself in their almost formal greeting. Yet their hands clasped, their eyes clung.

''Come.'' Maedhros' voice was husky, a smile on his mouth which would not be restrained, a heat in the brilliant eyes. ''Let me show thee to thy chambers.''

***

As soon as the door closed behind them Fingon seized Maedhros' tunic in both hands and jerked him close. He let his cloak fall to the floor. His hair fell in streams of darkness across his face, his chest, to his thighs.

''_ Naltanár,_'' Something raw and demanding glittered in his eyes as his hands pulled free Maedhros' shirt and glided up his back. ''Too long, always too damn long !''

He lifted his lips to kiss. There was a storm in him. He growled deep in his throat as their naked flesh touched, hot and smooth.

''Now..._ now! _'' In a warriors lightning-fast move he hooked a leg behind his cousin's and brought them both to the rich rug.

For a moment Fingon's eyes traced the contours of Maedhros' body, and then he leaned over, patterning kisses over it, taking the engorged length in his mouth. Even as Maedhros' hand clenched in his hair, his body's screamed demands became too urgent to ignore and he straddled his lover and impaled himself in one violent move. It wrenched a cry from his lips until the sensitive nerves deep within exploded with a hot flame. He arched back, his hair spilling behind him, filled so completely, as if he needed to prove to himself that no-one else could truly touch him save Maedhros.

He moaned, moving wantonly, lost to the pleasure which had swallowed the sudden pain. His hands closed on his cousin's arms like a vise as he rode until until he fell over the edge of ecstasy.

After, he touched his lips to the warm throat, heart thundering as it had not even when he had ridden against the dragon of Angband.

_Nothing but grief will come of it this marriage of mine. I know it. Father is not the only one whom has presentiments...fire, there is always fire and Maedhros._

He raised his head at last.  
. ''Remember,'' he drew his fingertip over the sleek brow. ''That I love thee, Maedhros Fëanorion.''

The silver eyes which looked back at him were hazy with passion and love. ''What lies on thy heart?'' He sat up. ''Tell me.''

''There is no easy way to say this. I have to wed.'' The words hung there baldly, stripped of emotion.

''Thou doth jest.'' Maedhros' eyes lost their warmth, reflected light back like metal.

''I would never jest about this. It is my duty. Listen to me. _ Listen to me!_'' This, as Maedhros came fluidly to his feet and turned away, leaning his hand against the wall. ''To get a son. My father has had dreams. He spoke of his own death.''

''The mighty Fingolfin foresees his own death?'' Maedhros whipped around in a swirl of hair. ''How will he meet his end, will he face the drake thou didst meet? Morgoth himself?''

A thrill of fear touched Fingon's heart. They stared at one another.

''Do not say that, even in anger.''

''I did this, did I not? Dispossessing my house, making thee High Prince of the Noldor. Art thou renouncing me, then?''

''Ah, yes, that is why I came here directly after my betrothal feast and straight into thine arms.'' Fingon slapped back like a whip. ''My father accepts our marriage but for our people, I must take a wife. Who else is there?''

'' Who else is there? '' Echoed Maedhros. ''For me? No-one. ''

***

Because the sons of Fëanor each had their own lands it was rare for many of them to be at Himring at one time, but Maedhros called them at whiles to take council. This happened to be one of those times. The twins were not here, had left a few days ago. Caranthir had remained to talk of the lands beyond the Ered Luin and the Men who were coming from the East in greater numbers. Celegorm and Curufin were leaving on the morrow.

''I suppose we will not see him until the morning now,'' Curufin remarked after Maedhros had lead Fingon away. ''If he can be troubled to leave his dear cousin long enough to bid us farewell.''

''Perhaps not. And if he does not, I will.'' Maglor smiled refusing to be drawn. In a way which was as deep as blood would go he loved all of them, but quite often wished to knock their heads together.

He knew how much Maedhros missed Fingon. Their realms were almost as far apart as it was possible to be in Beleriand.

It was approaching midnight when he heard his brother's touch in his mind. He was not asleep. Often he did not rest until dawn. Tilting the harp he had been playing onto its base he rose and opened the door. Seeing the expression on Maedhros' face, he guided him to a chair by the fire.

''What is it?'' he poured wine.

All of them were what they were, who they were: rulers, warriors, though since the Siege of Angband had been set there were few trials of their strength. But they were not free. Duty lay on them heavily and so, when Maedhros rode west, or Fingon came to Himring, Maglor was glad. It was never enough time. It was better than nothing at all. Maglor loved Fingon as a brother, could never cease to be indebted to him for his rescue of Maedhros, when he himself had been trying to hold the brothers together and they mourned the eldest as dead. He thought of the love he had witnessed in Tirion and how much more brightly it burned than any marriage he had ever seen. His own father's and Fingolfin's blessed and hallowed unions had crumbled like old bread.

''Is there ill news?'' His fingers ran up and down Maedhros' back, feeling the muscles tense as stone. It could not be war, Fingon would have announced it - so what was this?

''For me there is ill news, although thou may call me selfish.'' Maedhros raised his head, his face hard and fierce. ''Fingon is taking a wife.'' ~

 

~~~  


* taken from '' I Shall Lead And Thou Shalt Follow ''  
Nárë tauranya - my mighty flame - Q

  



	10. Unhallowed Vows

** Unhallowed Vows**

~The flames crackled gently in the quiet. Maedhros' hair caught them, mirrored their sheen until it seemed he wore pure fire himself.

"We are married. I care nothing for the damned laws. Not in Valinor and less here." Maedhros spoke through a growl in his throat. "And now another will feel him possess her, kiss her, touch her. She will bear him children.'' The fire hissed and spat as he flung the silver goblet into it's center.  
''Fingolfin thinks he will die.''  
Maglor's brows drew together.  
''And his eldest son must wed and get heirs.''

_He believes he will die? Ah, no!_ Maglor reached for his brother.  
''Fingon loves thee. He must do this for duty's sake, it will not be love.''  
_ Why does Fingolfin think he will die? Does he dream? Does he know? We are at peace, but that peace cannot last, ultimately we ourselves must break it, or be forsworn._

''I will bid Celegorm and Curufin farewell in the morning,'' Maglor said. ''Go back to Fingon. Dost thou think it any easier for him?''

Maedhros looked up. ''No.'' He raised his hand, and the stones in the ring glowed. ''I am simply selfish. But ours is a true bonding.''

''I know it is.'' Maglor laid his fingers over the rubies in a gesture of solidarity. ''And I fear Fingon's marriage, built on falsehoods, will be a bitter one.''

Maedhros' face pulsed with flame as he looked into the glowing coals.  
''I thought we would make our own laws here.'' he spoke as if to himself. ''I should have known it would never be so easy.''

***

Maglor stopped at the door to his own chambers, paused, then walked on quickly to the guest room where Caranthir lodged.

_ Art thou awake? _

_I am awake._ The response came instantly, a warriors reaction. _ Come in. _

It was almost dawn, a grey light seeping in through the windows. Maglor crossed the outer chamber to the bedroom and entered, sitting down on a chair beside his younger brother.

''Fingon came to inform our brother that he must marry and get an heir,'' he murmured and Caranthir sitting up, swept back his long, black hair, his eyes going past Maglor as if he could look through the walls.

''Why now?'' he asked. ''Are we not at peace, has aught been seen of Morgoth save some few orc raids?''

''The Noldor expect him to have an heir. Fingolfin has...had foreshadowings of his own death.''

''Hells, I hope that is not true!'' Thrusting back the sheet, Caranthir rose and poured wine. ''Maedhros should have an heir also...had he not abdicated the Kingship he himself would be expected to wed.''

''He would not. He could not.''

''If he had to, he would. Fingon will. And so?''

''He will have only a few days with Fingon. Celegorm and Curufin depart on the morrow as planned. I have said I will see them off in the morn. Maedhros and our cousin do not need their...advice.''

There came an impatient sound. ''I still believe he should have retained the Kingship, and so do they. But that is past and Fingolfin and Fingon have both proved themselves courageous warriors and leaders.''

''Maedhros does not need reminding of the succession, Caranthir. Yes, I know how they feel, but at this time?" Maglor shook his head. "He needs support."

''He has it,'' his brother said with dry affection. ''I love him, all of thee, but I look to Maedhros for wisdom and leadership.''

***

Fingon stirred, feeling Maedhros' eyes on him like a touch. They looked at one another in the dawn light. He reached out a hand, desperate, ravenous, driven by fury and hunger. He had meant to tell Maedhros that after the wedding, their paths should seldom cross, but he knew that he could not make that resolution, and never keep it if he did. He loved as if he saw the time they had vanishing like rain into a bone-dry land. Perhaps in his soul he knew the shortness of the time, the same dark shadow which loured over his father grazing him with black wings. His long fingers slipped into the copper-bronze hair and he said, fiercely: ''One day there will be no more partings !''

His words faded into the hot, fierce kisses and he was possessing and possessed in their joining.

***

During the next two days Maglor and Caranthir ensured that life in the great fortress was uninterrupted in its routines, that food and wine was taken to Maedhros' chambers. They had seen that the departure of Celegorm and Curufin went as planned. Caranthir said he must depart soon to Helevorn but would remain until Fingon left.

A weight lay on Maglor. What had Fingolfin seen or dreamed, that he had believed his eldest son must wed now? The Long Peace had fenced Angband with bright swords and watchful eyes, but they knew from the drake which had issued forth, which Fingon had driven back, from the orc raid through his own lands, that Morgoth was not idle.

***

If he had not gone to Himring immediately the betrothal feast was ended, had the guests had not recollected the rumors of forbidden love.

In after years, though he admitted he had erred, he knew that it would have made no difference to the marriage. Had Rosriel been in love with him he would have felt guilt at being unable to return her love, but although she was young, she was all ambition and possessiveness. And that possessiveness was not rooted in rejected love but born out of a desire to own him and change him.

He had told his father that he would not let another take the news to Maedhros. Fingolfin had looked at him and finally nodded.  
"Thou shouldst be cultivating a friendship with her, an understanding at least. But I understand."

"There will be time to reach an accommodation with her, but I must be the one to tell Maedhros."

His father had reached out, clasped his wrist, and kissed him.  
"If there was any other way I would not sacrifice thee, I know how it is to love one who the laws say we must not have."

Fingon threw his arms about his father. "Promise me, father, thou wilt not die!"

"I do not seek death," Fingolfin said. "But it will come to us in these lands whether we will or no."

***

The blue and silver banners faded into the hazy southern distances as Maglor and Caranthir watched, feeling helpless to assuage the angry pain on Maedhros' face. They each laid a hand on his back as he closed his eyes and braced himself against the parapet.

Like all the brothers, Caranthir had long seen the blossoming friendship - and more - between Maedhros and his cousin in Tirion, but not until the time when he had lead Fingon secretly to Formenos, had he actively ranged himself on the side of his eldest brother. He had thought the infatuation between the two was fostered by the long and frequent partings. Now he knew he was wrong; it went far deeper than that.

The wind was cold on that high place, shredding their hair. Maglor said softly: ''Come, let us go inside.''

In Maedhros' chambers, he sat down and leaned back against the settle. Maglor brought wine and over the copper head his eyes met Caranthir's.

_ Will he go, dost thou think? To Fingon's wedding, he only makes more grief for himself. _

_ He will go. And so will I. _

Caranthir gave vent to a soundless sigh and nodded.  
_ Then I will go also. _

_ I thank thee. _

Maglor placed a goblet in Maedhros hand. As his fingers closed around it Caranthir saw the rich red of the flame-ring glint, and he became very still for a moment. His eyes widened, flew to Maglor's. he had seen the ring before, of course, but all of them wore jewels. And Maglor's words that Maedhros could not marry now became clear.

''Dost thou see now? And why Fingon's own marriage will be the one truly unhallowed?''

''This is impossible!'' Caranthir whirled away with an impatient gesture.

Maedhros sprang to his feet. ''It is done! We called the One as witness, not the Valar. And Fingolfin knows." At the shock which flashed over Caranthir's face Maglor endorsed this with an inclination of his head. ''He knew, and said naught. Fingon risked his life to bring me from Thangorodrim! Does any-one _dare_ doubt our love?''

Abruptly, Caranthir sat down, running his hands up over his face.  
''I see...I see - and because both of thee are princes and Fingon the heir to the high kingship, it could never be openly known.''

''And hence why Fingon marries,'' Maglor finished.

''I confess I believed this a foolish love which would fade - until now. Thou dost know I have been much in my own lands.'' Caranthir reached out and put an arm about Maedhros. ''Forgive me, I did not think thee did wrong only that it was misguided, made of lust and fostered by partings. I am with thee, Maedhros, I will go with thee to Hithlum and be beside thee when this marriage takes place.''

''And I,'' Maglor said. ''Thou dost have our love and our loyalty, now and always.''

Maedhros' face was stark. ''I will need it.'' ~

***

~ ** Hithlum **

In the year after his betrothal, Fingon had become increasingly certain that it was a grave mistake. He had in courtesy, invited Rosriel and her mother to his palace, so that they might come to know one another in that time before the wedding.

The Lady Araverilin was regal and courteous, but Rosriel resembled her father more, to the point of being almost overbearing.  
There was a tacit understanding among the Noldor that the rumored love between Fingon and Maedhros should never be openly discussed. But the whispers which has fluttered up after the Prince's swift departure to Himring had quickly come to Rosriel's ears courtesy, he later learned, of her father, and when he returned he found a maiden armed as it were, for battle, in her finest gowns and jewels, face cold as marble.

After, he wondered if he should have spoken to her honestly and openly about it, yet he knew, instinctively that it would have made no difference, and how could the confession that he loved Maedhros have helped his marriage? Rosriel would be hurt at the least and understandably. Her words, spoken to others in his hearing, made it abundantly plain that she considered such acts disgusting. Did she truly know anything, he wondered, as her clear, formal tones denounced such relationships, or was it aimed for his ears only?

As it was, on this day, which should have been joyous, he felt only a grim despair.

For the past month wedding guests had been arriving, and pavilions sprang up in the green of Hithlum. Beleg Cúthalion and Mablung came from Doriath, for Elu Thingol kept friendship with Fingolfin's people. The only one conspicuously missing was, of course, Turgon. No-one expected him, but a few days previously his father had arrived from Barad Eithel and brought him a message, which he said, had come to him from Thorondor, expressing love and concern. Turgon was still hidden, but safe and that lightened their hearts.

The feast was that eve, and Fingon watched all that day for his cousins arrival, before Fingolfin called him, and he was prepared.

He bathed, anointed his body with perfume, and then Fingolfin himself braided his hair into the ornate latticework of his House, winding gold thread through each of the three thick plaits. Over the blue and silver tunic, Fingon wore a chain of diamond and sapphire, a circlet was set on his brow. Last, the High King fastened a cloak about his shoulders and held him thus surveying him, then kissed his brow.

''know. I know. For our people, for the Noldor, Fingon. Let the blame lie upon me.'' He took his son's hand where the red-gold of Maedhros' ring glowed. Fëanor had fashioned it for his eldest son. He recognized the exquisite workmanship.

"I hope whatever thou wilt give me in the wine is efficacious, father. I cannot want her, but I do not wish to shame her."

''It will give thee desire, but I cannot save thee from shame after the act,'' Fingolfin warned. ''Believe me, I know.''

Reluctantly, Fingon removed the ring, handing it to Fingolfin.  
''Adar, didst thou ever meet Lord Penlod's daughter, Fanari, in Vinyamar? First-born of us in Endor, she was.''

''Yes, I have met her, of course. She is much like her mother, and a close friend to Glorfindel.''

''She knew, father. She knew about Maedhros and I. I feel she would have understood, had she not gone with Turgon, I might have asked her.''

"Fanari Penlodiel?" His father paused, saw her face in his mind, but it was cast into shadow, overlaid by another, desolate and proud, washed by red flame. He was struck by a feeling of pain and unassuagable grief.  
_More grief...how could it be otherwise?_  
"I think not," he whispered. "And from this union I do foresee good: I have seen a child the image of thee and something which binds him to the House of Fëanor, as thou art, and I...was."

''A child?'' Fingon said.

''A son.''

''That would be well. It is rather the reason for this marriage, after all. Come then, father, let us go, our guests and my betrothed await us.''

''Fingon?'' Fingolfin clenched his hand over the ring.

''Father?''

"Forgive me."

~~~

The Great Hall was alive with color and light, voices and the sound of lyre and harp. All those gathered rose as Fingolfin and Fingon entered and stepped to the dais, where Rosriel was already seated.  
She herself did not rise until the last moment, and showed a gown of cloth of gold and silver, her hair streaming loose and set with gems, grey eyes very bright, almost triumphant, as if she gazed upon an enemy who had, at last, capitulated to her.  
And then, as Fingon bowed to her, he realized that she was not looking at him, but past him, across the hall. He turned his head.

The Fëanorions' must have arrived while he was preparing, and had now taken their seats. On the marble wall behind them, the fiery banner was hung. Of the brothers, three had come, Maedhros, Maglor and Caranthir, glittering, beautiful and proud.

For a moment time stopped, and all noise seemed to fade as Fingon looked across the chamber. Maedhros' hair gathered all the light there was as he rose and bowed. They touched without touching, a court between them.

''I am surprised they are here,'' Rosriel remarked as they sat and she reached for her wine-cup. ''I hardly think their presence will be a blessing to our marriage.''

"They are kin, and I invited them." Fingon moistened his dry mouth. "I am sorry that thou dost think that, lady."

***

His speaking of the vows seemed hazed with a sense of dislocation, something learned by rote which meant nothing as his lips shaped the words. He mocked the Valar as he uttered them, mocked the One and the woman who stood before him. They meant _nothing_ to him, and the wrongness of that roiled in his stomach.  
As they returned to their seats Rosriel, receiving the well wishes of many, looked bright and satisfied. She took his hand and held both of her own about it, raising her head to look at Maedhros across the Hall.

How could any-one not feel it, the passion which blazed between the two of them, Fingon wondered. The lamplight caught the spark of gems, beating with the tense rhythm of Maedhros' breathing. The three brothers sat straight-backed as King's giving audience, haughty faces caressed by lamplight, but those who knew them well would see the concern in Maglor and Caranthir, the wordless language of their eyes and movements as if to support Maedhros. Or restrain him.

***

The door closing behind Fingon sounded like that of a cell shutting on a prisoner. He felt oddly lightheaded, hot. The herbs which his father had seen added to his wine seemed to have the effect Fingolfin had promised, yet it was a strangely detached lust. It was not evoked by the woman who turned to him and held out her arms.

''Disrobe me,'' she ordered, lifting up her gemmed hair.

Her over-gown and the silk shift hissed to the floor, heavy and precious, leaving her slenderness unclothed as she turned back to him.  
''Come.''

He saw no desire in her eyes, nor even the nervousness of a virgin, and he thought: _What is wrong here?_

His breath came short as he drew off his tunic then, giving himself time, his fingers went to the intricate braids in his hair and unraveled them. Rosriel walked to the great bed and slipped under the coverlets. Fingon felt sick with contempt at himself, at the dishonor he was about to do her, himself and Maedhros. But this must be done. He must not shame her.

He saw her eyes flicker over him, slide swiftly away. Her mouth turned down and he had the impression of immense distaste as she reached out and turned down the lamp-wick. The flame died, darkness fell on the chamber, save for the starry shimmer in the aperture of the window. The air smelled suddenly of old, rotten ice.

''I prefer it to be dark,'' she said.

There was something terribly wrong here, he thought.

***

Fingolfin turned his head as his son and bride left the hall, looking to where Maedhros had come to his feet and was walking swiftly from the room. His brothers followed him. Maglor glanced back and met his eyes for a moment.

It was the high king's duty to see the new-wed couple to their chambers, but when he had done this, he did not return immediately to the Great Hall. He strode along the passage, up through one of the towers onto the battlements and tilted his head, listening.

A mild wind from the west snapped the banners and the gibbous Moon shone from gem and hair. Maedhros was cursing inventively against himself and the Valar.

Those gathered for the feast would expect Fingolfin to return soon, a public, glittering figure, while Fingon lay with Rosriel. All through the evening, Fingolfin had sensed he recoil of his son's soul. The love between Fingon and Maedhros went back to the time a very young Findekáno had run to his tall copper-haired cousin in the palace ward.

''Dost thou wish to leave? I will go and order the horses saddled.'' Maglor's voice.

''Yes. This was not a wise decision.'' Caranthir, intense and fierce. Their heads came about as they saw some-one approach and Fingolfin raised a hand, enjoining silence.

"He is right, it would be wiser for thee to leave now."

"I know." Maedhros voice came from somewhere deep in his chest, somewhere that hurt him. His fingers pushed into his hair. "I know."

''Maedhros.'' Fingolfin reached forward, took the angry, beautiful face between his hands. ''Look at me. At some time, my son will have to consummate this marriage, if only to engender children. And I have foreseen a child.'' His eyes held the burning silver ones. ''But whilst thou art here...'' he shook his head. ''Let this also be on my head then, as is this whole false business. Come with me, all of thee, there is little time.''

His cloak swirled as he turned and strode along the parapet. They descended the tower steps, strode down a long corridor and into Fingolfin's chambers. He closed the door, walked to a table where a jug of wine stood, and unlocked a small silver box, drawing out a crystal phial and a folded letter, the seal already cracked open.

''Be very sure thou dost know what thou must do.'' He unstoppered the vial, dripped a little into a goblet, adding wine. ''I would do this, but I must return to the hall, for if I vanish for hours, even those most flown with wine will feel slighted, and we have guests from Doriath here. Whereas the three of thee were seen to leave the Hall and as far as any know are together." His eyes rose and looked straight at Maglor, who was gazing at him in puzzlement.

"None may disturb the wedded couple on their night - but I, the High King may. I have a letter from Turgon, Thorondor keeps watch and wherever he is, my second son knows of this marriage. I will go and call for Fingon, as if this had just arrived. Rosriel will not be pleased, but she has had much wine this night. She will sleep after the consummation. And before dawn, Fingon will return to her."

The brothers cast quick, startled glances at one another.

"Caranthir, take Maedhros into my bedchamber. Wilt thou take Fingon's place, Maglor?" Fingolfin chose him for he was calmer of temper and, in anger Caranthir might be rough with the new bride, which was not something she merited.

Maglor's eyes widened, flew to his brothers and back to his uncle.  
''I am willing...but my body is not.'' A flush rose to his cheek. ''I cannot command it.''

Fingolfin picked up the wine cup and offered it.  
''With these essences and herbs in thy wine, thou wilt. They inflame desire and make it possible for any-one to lie with those they must; they act upon the body, but not the soul. It will feel cold to thee, a thirst which must be slaked. I have often thought perhaps animals feel like this. I have used this myself.''

Maglor stared into the wine, black brows drawn, then glanced up at Maedhros who was staring at him.

_ This is not right...neither for she nor for I, and this is not the way I would have wanted to lie with any-one. _

But...  
''I love my brother.'' He tossed off the wine, and shuddered a little at the strange taste. Almost instantly his body began to burn and harden. He bit back an exclamation. It was both like and unlike the time his father had touched him, but there was no conflagration of the soul here. It was, as Fingolfin had said, simply a dreadful urge.

''Come then.'' Fingolfin picked up the letter and strode out.

"_ Maglor!_" Maedhros exclaimed and Maglor paused in the doorway.

"I love thee, let me do this for thee."

***

The hallways was silent and the lamps burned soft in the night. Reaching Fingon's chamber, Fingolfin paused, turned Maglor and loosed his braided hair. Fingon and Maglor possessed the same long, jetty manes, save that there was a loose wave to Maglor's, but that would not be noticeable in the dark, if it was dark in the room and Fingolfin thought it would be. Fingolfin had never seen a woman less sexual than Rosriel and it puzzled him, although he was beginning to guess her father had pushed for this marriage for his own reasons.

But he had seen a son.

He felt Maglor quiver and knew he was feeling the effects of the drugged wine to his very bones. His head tipped back in a way that reminded Fingolfin suddenly, shockingly of Fëanor, that tempting wantonness he had seen long ago in their father's library when he believed his half-brother slept...

''So like him,'' he whispered. _ Wait here until I bring him out. I will return with him before dawn. _

Maglor turned to face him, flushed, roused, beautiful and one hand rose, slipped behind Fingolfin's neck.

''So like him,'' he echoed, a rustle of fire.

For a long, long moment they kissed, and then they broke apart, silver and star-blue eyes like pale coals in the low light of the hallway.

_ He tasted like thee... did he damn us both or did we damn ourselves?_ Fingolfin rapped against the door and opened it, their quickened breathing was the only sound in the silent hallway.

''I ask pardon for this intrusion,'' he said clear enough to be heard within. ''It will take but one moment. A message has come from Turgon, to bless this union. I would have thee read it, Fingon.''

When Fingon stepped through the door, the look on his face was enough.

_Come with me,_ Fingolfin said. _Ask no questions. _

As Fingon saw Maglor, startled understanding leaped into his eyes. He touched his cousin's arm and Maglor nodded, leaned and kissed the prince's cheek, then took a long, silent breath and then stepped into the dark chamber.  
Fingolfin closed the door after him and drew his son quickly to his own rooms.

To Fingon, this had the quality of some strange dream, a misty, wine-rich series of images: his father's chambers, opening to the great bedroom...and he slammed to a halt against empty air, when he saw who stood there. He did not see Caranthir leave, hear the closing of the door, all that existed was Maedhros turning to him and then they were together, mouth seeking mouth. They kissed as they moved toward the bed, Maedhros shedding his clothes, Fingon his long robe. And now the desire was not cold and undirected, it was real and blazing and they were together in the long, burning fall into ecstasy. ~

~~~


	11. Duplicity of Love

** Duplicity Of Love **

~ Self-condemnation drove clear to Maglor's bones as he stepped into the chamber. His skin shivered like a nervous horse's under the influence of anger, which he fought to rein in, and lust roused by the strange potion.

This was not how it should be...yet how could it be the other? His own father in Tirion, Fingolfin, in whom he saw so much of Fëanor? No, that was iniquitous, so so why did this feel more so? Could he have lived with the wrongness of that? At least this, although a deception, was not incestuous.

''Come.'' The whisper flicked out of the shadows and he moved to the bed. He needed to sate this ravenous hunger, and this after all, was why he was here, to take Fingon's place.

_ I do this for my brother, for Fingon, through love..._  
And that made it no more acceptable.

She was perfumed, a scent like apricots, her hair was soft, her breasts small and firm under his chest, and she spread her legs apart for him without prompting. His fingers glided over her skin, down, touched her. Her hand reached and enclosed his hardness and guided him in as matter-of-factly as if she had done this a thousand times.

A cry broke from her at his penetration. She tensed and then her teeth bit into his shoulder. He felt the sting as the skin broke. It was as if she wished to punish him for inflicting pain on her, and he drew back, but then her fingers dug into his buttocks and he pushed in again. She hissed, bit again, whimpered under him, rigid as wood, only relaxing when he withdrew.

He understood Fingolfin's words then. The act was like an stag rutting in spring, no more. Her arms wound around him like soft vines, then he felt her muscles loosen as she drifted into sleep. There was a sense of proprietorial claiming in her tight grip about his waist, as if she had seized something valuable and now would not release it. Maglor had seen his elder brother and Fingon relaxed together, the love between them was unforced. Whatever Rosriel felt for Fingon, he very much doubted it was love. He hoped it was not, for her sake.

He had not known what he would feel after lying with a woman. There was nothing save a feeling of empty shame and a kind of sickness which lay in his mouth with the lingering taste of the wine.

***

The scratch on the door was so faint only one awake and alert would have heard it. Very carefully, Maglor disengaged himself, Rosriel murmured something and he laid a hand on her shoulder gently. She stilled. He waited a moment, then picked up his discarded robe, tied it and padded silently to the outer door.

The hallways was dark, the lamps covered. Fingolfin still wore the rich robes from the wedding feast, only his hair was unbound, as if his fingers had plucked loose the intricate braiding in concern as the night passed. He said nothing as he laid a hand on Maglor's back and lead him down the passage to his rooms.

"He would understand." His smile was tender, sorrowful as he leaned forward. "There is more of him in thee than thou dost think, Macalaurë."

"And thou and he were more alike than any believed, uncle." Their breaths mingled, words spoken in dimness, lips seeking lips, tasting fire and wine. A shudder racked Maglor and both drew apart, eyes holding the afterglow of the flame which would never be forgotten.

Caranthir was sitting in the ante chamber. He rose as they entered. Clearly he had been here all the time, two wine-cups were set on a small table, indicating that he and Fingolfin had been speaking together. He raised an inquiring brow at his brother and then embraced him wordlessly. Maglor was not surprised at the demonstration of affection - all the Fëanarions were tactile - but at the understanding the touch seemed to convey. He realized his face must be joyless when, after an act of union he should have appeared as...

...As Fingon and Maedhros, who then came out of the bedchamber together. Maedhros was dressed, Fingon in the house-robe he had worn earlier. Their hair was damp from bathing and hung loose and thick. They glowed with the intensity of joining, and Maglor felt suddenly as sticky, as unclean as a an unwashed wine-cup.

Fingon came across.

''Maglor...?''

He shook his head, laid his fingers over the mouth still flushed with blood.  
''No,'' he murmured and looked at Maedhros, whose expression was complex, troubled. ''Bite him,'' he sighed.

''What?'' His brother looked startled.

Maglor moved the silk of his robe away from his shoulder, uncovering the teethmarks.  
''It would not be well if she saw thee without this, would it?''

A ripple of revulsion tinged with pity shook across Fingon's features and he loosed his own robe. The bite which drew blood from his own flesh was delivered as sensuously as some-one breaking the tart skin of a ripe pear and savoring the juices.

_ Acts so identical, and yet so different..._  
Maglor thought, as he saw the Prince's head tip back, heard his hitched breathing.

''Come,'' Fingolfin said gently. ''It is close to dawn. Thou hast bathed, so dress now and we will ride out after we have taken food.''

Fingon drew up the robe again. He looked down and then, swiftly, up at Maglor.

''What can I say to thee?''

''I owe thee my brother's life, dost thou think there is _anything_ I would not do for thee an I could?''

''And I,'' Caranthir said. ''He speaks for me also. At least let us do something for the both of thee while we may. We cannot be here forever.'' He flung an arm about Maglor. ''Let us bathe and change.''

''Uncle?'' Maglor held back and turned. Fingolfin paused at the door.

''Hast thou considered, if Rosriel conceives a child and it is not Fingon's?''

Caranthir choked.

''I did consider that yes,'' Fingolfin said. His mouth twitched a little as if the thought were too strange not to feel mirth - either that, or sorrow. ''Would it have mattered? But I have seen a son of my son, and naught else, so I will simply take that on trust.''

Caranthir released his amusement when Fingolfin and Fingon had left.

''Forgive me, but that would be rather ironic...almost poetic,'' he grinned. ''Let us hope he is right. I would not wish a child of mine raised by another.'' Drawing Maglor through to the bathing room, he disrobed. ''And tonight I will be with her. I can see whatever our uncle gave thee in the wine was effective - only it was not what thou didst want - or have waited for, is it?''

''No,'' Maglor scooped soft soap from a bowl. ''But I do not think, brother, that I will ever experience what Maedhros and Fingon have.''

''Thou didst find her distasteful?'' Caranthir worked a lather into his brother's wet, dark mane.

''She is beautiful...no. It is not that. Or not that alone. I will never marry. I will never pull any innocent into this Oath. Curufin alone of us has married. I will not. It was...'' He moved to stand under the pour of warm water from the pipes, let it stream through his hair, over his body, then mounted the steps from the bath and picked up a towel. ''There was no passion.''

Caranthir joined him and they dried and dressed. ''So, she is not eager? I want to know what I should be like with her.''

''I do not feel it is right to discuss what some-one is like in the bed-chamber,'' Maglor reproved. '' Wouldst thou not find that uncouth, if some-one were discussing thee?''

"It depends what they said of me." Caranthir gave his lighting-swift smile. "I do not ask out of prurient curiosity. I do not relish it, but I would not deliberately cause her discomfort. And I agree, we will not speak of it after this.''

Maglor looked at him a moment, then nodded. ''She was a maiden. I tried to be gentle - and under the influence of that drink it was not easy. She did not respond, and so, all I can advise thee is to be considerate. I am no skilled lover, after all.'' A flush burned on his cheeks.

''I doubt that would matter if there were true passion,'' Caranthir kissed his brow. ''Well, let us eat and ride out, and clear thy head.''

***

On the third bell, the newly-wedded couple took their places at the morning feast. Fingon had already been dressed when Rosriel emerged from the room, swathed in her houserobe.

''I go now to bathe and change, husband.'' She swept out to meet her ladies, who surrounded her in a laughing cloud, escorting her to her rooms. They were all young and their merry voices were like the calling of spring birds, gradually fading as the door to Rosriel's own chambers closed on them.

Fingon walked to the balcony, looking down over the inner garden. He felt a hand close on his shoulder, knew it was his father.  
He said, without turning his head: ''I should never have let him do that.''

''It was I who suggested it.''

Fingon did look around then.

"Maedhros left the hall after thee. I found the three of them on the battlements. Maedhros was near to breaking with rage." Fingolfin leaned his brow against his son's. "I saw his desperation, and thine own. And so, I acted."

''I wish I could feel ungrateful, and that shames me," Fingon whispered. "I will have to lie with her when they are gone." His hand clenched on the stonework, formed a fist.

''I cannot bear to see thee in pain,'' Fingolfin said. ''Tell me: Didst thou swear never to see him again after thy marriage?''

Fingon exhaled sharply. "No," he admitted. "I knew I could never keep such a vow."

''I tried... many times, to turn away from the fire that drew me.'' Fingolfin's words were laced with the memories of that flame. ''And always I was drawn back. Now, or later, thou wouldst deceive Rosriel. I simply ensured that the deception would succeed. And at other times, well...I will be here when I can. And no doubt both of thee will come to Barad Eithil.''

Something rose in Fingon's face, wonder and shame melded. ''No, _adar, _ I will not permit that.''

''I arranged this marriage, now, let me expiate my offense against thee. Enough will be on thy shoulders.'' And Fingolfin thought. _ Now, and after I am gone. _  
And sadness engulfed him, for he foresaw, although he had never spoken of it, that Fingon would not live so many years after him. All of the kings of the Noldor would come to bloody ends.

~~~

The meal over, the guests gathered in groups to decide how to fill this day with hawking or hunting, with music, with walks or riding. There was some rivalry between the warriors of Fingolfin and Fingon and those the Fëanarions had brought with them. Targets were set up for Beleg of Doriath to show his skill with Belthronding, his great black bow.

Fingon walked from the dais, pausing as Mablung crossed to him, and Rosriel withdrew her hand and walked on. Her steps took her straight into the path of Maedhros, who had turned with his brothers to leave the room.

''I trust thou didst rest well, Maedhros.'' Her voice was dulcet as the ring-doves that came to drink at the palace fountains. She continued, through the polite smile which turned up her lips and never touched her eyes: ''Even though my husband was not in thy bed.''

The brothers became very still. Rosriel's eyes were gem-hard, unwinking.

''Yea, Maedhros Lackhand, I know of thine unclean love for my spouse. But now that he has turned from that path and is wed to me, I do not expect to see thee here in his realm again. I trust my meaning is plain enough.''

It did not even cross Maedhros' mind to dissimulate.

''Thou dost speak so to the eldest son of Fëanor?'' Caranthir demanded.

''It would seem so.'' Her smile was wholly artifice now, the words spat like pebbles through it. ''I speak to the eldest son of a cursed House, the son of one who was insane and by the Valars' grace is dead. But he twisted thee did he not? All of thee. Doom snaps at thy heels, but thou wilt not bring it to my realm again.''

''Thy realm? Since when did marriage to Fingon give thee the right to rule as if thou wert his equal?'' Maedhros snarled. ''For that, _Lady,_ thou wilt never be !''

''_I_ am not tainted by sin against the Laws, I am _already his better!_ '' Rosriel hurled back.

''Brothers, come, now.'' Maglor interposed himself swiftly between them, his back to the incensed Rosriel, and deliberately so.  
''Thou wilt not turn thy back on _me_, Fëanorion!'' she hissed.

Caranthir was incandescent with fury, so close to smashing the lie with words that could never be recalled and would ruin so much. With main strength Maglor pushed both he and Maedhros back, ignoring Rosriel who stood with heaving breast, rage and triumph in her eyes. It could not be helped that people were watching curiously, they had to leave the hall now.

''Thou dost think I can lie with that?'' Caranthir growled.

''I do not ask thee to, but say naught, for the One's sake, and for Fingon's!'' Maglor urged them to his own guest rooms and thrust them both within, leaning back against the door.

''The poisonous serpent!'' Maedhros' eyes blazed. ''How did she know?''

''People have seen thee together, it is not so easy to hide the language of thy bodies and eyes. Perhaps old rumor was brought up.'' Maglor himself shook with chained rage. An insult against any of them was not to be borne, save that it must be, for this matter had already gone too far. ''I do not know. Is she jealous, dost thou think? Does she perhaps...'' he glanced at Maedhros, who had paced across to pour wine. ''love Fin'?'' He watched his brother freeze.

''Loves him? She seeks to own him!'' Caranthir reached for a goblet. ''Thou didst hear her! '_My realm._' she said! If it were not so damned tragic, I would find this deception amusing, something to hold over her.''

''Yes, I thought thou wouldst say something, which is why we had to leave.'' Maglor still stood against the door.

"Say something...! I tell thee this, were I Fingon, I would get a son on her as soon as possible and send her off to the south after. She had better keep her mouth closed while I bed her, Maglor, or I cannot promise to rein in my temper."

''It would cause some comment,'' his brother said dryly, ''if she were to be found dead in her marriage bed and the blame would fall on Fingon, so tire her, Caranthir. I will say something to her.''

''What?'' Maedhros demanded. ''Remember anything thou dost say rebounds on Fingon. He has to live with her.''

''Thou think I will see thee insulted? Or our father? '' Maglor flashed. ''I will not hurt a woman, nor make Fingon's life more difficult, but I _will _ speak with her.''

~~~

Perhaps Caranthir was a little rougher than he should have been under the influence of the drugged wine, Maglor hasty with distaste and self loathing, but nothing elicited any response from Rosriel. Fingon would find no comfort in her arms, thought Maglor. Perhaps after she bore a child, she would no longer require her husband's services.

On the last day of their visit, Fingon, Rosriel and Fingolfin came to bid them farewell. Maglor embraced his uncle and cousin and bowed before the lady, who stood stiff and proud, her hand on Fingon's arm.

''Until next we meet,'' he said in his melodic voice, and into her mind: _And we will meet again, Rosriel, for it is not for thee to ban us from this realm. And in that time thou wilt learn manners, and that it is not wise to court the enmity of the House of Fëanor. For do not forget, lady, that we already have the blood of our own kin on our hands._

And of course Rosriel would believe anything of the _ cursed _ Fëanorions...

Her eyes widened and spat ice at him.  
_I curse thee to pain and everlasting torment, sinner!_

He did not look back as they rode away. ~


	12. Ereinion

~ The Fëanorions had departed, and the time was come for Fingon to sleep with Rosriel. He drank deep that first night, and the herbs and essences added to the wine briefly lent him the ability to do his duty.  
For it was a duty. There was no love, no joy in their unions, only an ambiguous lust which soon faded, leaving him shamed. All he had ever known was Maedhros. And here was Rosriel cool, methodical as if fastening a girdle on her gown. She wanted him certainly, for his title, children, what he was and might one day be. She did not desire or love him. He knew what love was.

On the first morning he lay, staring into slow-rising pallor of dawn feeling disgust at himself rather than at the woman beside him. Quietly he rose, went through the connecting passage to his own chamber where he bathed himself in hot, scented water, trying to wash away his guilt.

***

It was the emptiest time of Fingon's life.

With Fingolfin gone back to Barad Eithel, Rosriel set about attempting to make her influence known. She did not see, she said, why Fingon and Fingolfin exchanged so many goods with Caranthir, and demanded that nothing be traded with the Fëanorion. Fingon explained that Caranthir was immensely wealthy, that the trade from the Dwarf cities of Nogrod and Belegost in the Ered Luin passed through his realm. Dwarven weaponry was superbly made and they, in turn, coveted the gemstones the Noldor discovered, valuing the tears of amber and the great pearls Círdan's folk brought up about the Isle of Balar. Yet more greatly did they value the alloys of metals the Noldor created by their work in the hot and cold forges, the knowledge of which had been brought from Valinor, although the secret of making them was not divulged to the Dwarves who likewise would not share their own mysteries with the Eldar.

Ereinion, Scion of Kings, was conceived in the summer. In those years, the child's birth was the only joy in Fingon's life. When Fingolfin rode from Barad Eithil to see the child, he said:  
''Did I not tell thee he would be the image of thee? Wilt thou not name him?''

''He will be named,'' Fingon said. ''Not by me, by another.''

The loneliness, the hardness of his face, closed over increasing unhappiness, seared Fingolfin to his very soul. And Rosriel almost as soon as her son could walk and talk, attempted to alienate him from his father.

***

"_ Naneth? Naneth?_"  
But the soft calls did not reach the lady's ears, or if they did, she ignored them. Her skirts swirling behind her, she swept down the hall and flung open a doorway.

Ereinion pattered after her, tiny feet soundless on the marble. He had been asleep, hugging his soft cloth puppy when a nightmare jerked him awake. A dark tower had climbed into the sky, a mountain belched fume and flame, and there was something more terrible than both of those: a figure exuding hatred and power. It stared at him, the eyes under a full-faced helm were cruel as wolf-fangs.

There had been some-one else in the dream, some-one not dreadful, but loved. A beautiful warrior's face had looked into his own. The eyes were silver, the hair dark bronze as autumn beech leaves. Ereinion felt grief, pain, love, and understood none of it, only that he had hurtled to wakefulness with his heart thundering, frightened and alone.

By the light illuminating his room, he saw that dawn had broken some time ago. Like all Eldar, he loved the stars, and though he was very young, he had stayed awake the evening before, singing softly to the stars from his balcony.

The room his mother had entered belonged to his father. There were two doors into Fingon's chambers, one to a public room and the other to a private chamber. Rosriel had entered through the private door.

Ereinion both loved and was in awe of his father, and did not enter his rooms alone. His mother had strictly charged him not to.  
_"He is far too busy to be bothered by a child,"_ she had said, looking down at her son. _"He will be wroth with thee and send thee away."_

Ereinion had nodded. He feared the way her eyes glittered, the way the way she looked at him sometimes, as if she stood on an icy mountain top and was very far away. She made him feel cold and he was grateful that she left him in the care of nursemaids and tutors. Yet a part of him longed to run to her, climb into her lap, to drift into sleep feeling protected.

He knew his father had many duties, that Fingon was the heir to the high king, whom Ereinion adored. When Fingolfin came, he would carry him on his shoulders and ride with him on his shining-white horse. His father seemed less somber, less distant when Fingolfin visited.

The door of the chamber was a little ajar. His mother had not closed it in her haste, and Ereinion set his eyes to the crack, clutching his moppet tightly.

''Another night thou hast shunned my bed!'' Her voice held a familiar edge, and her son flinched. ''What is it this time? Reports? Training? Morgoth is about to break our leaguer and attack? _ Or wert thou tossing in thine own bed dreaming of thy cursed cousin rooting thee? _'' The last words were a flood like boiling water.

There was a moment of silence, then Fingon spoke.  
''I have much to do, Rosriel. I have not slept this night. I have messages from the High King and from Dor-lómin.''

''This is but one excuse after another! Thou hast not lain with me since the autumn feast! I would give thee more sons, daughters, not just one!''

''Thou hast told me that the time is right for thee to bear more children, and yet thou doth not conceive.'' The reply was soft. ''Perhaps the time is _not_ right, Rosriel? How canst thou be mistaken for twelve years? Perhaps thou dost not truly want more?''

The child heard the hiss of breath through his mother's lips.  
''Whether or no, it is thy _ duty _ to share my bed!''

Ereinion closed his eyes against the soft moppet and shivered. Her voice made him think of winter, when the winds came from the black north and howled about his chamber, when shadows lurked in the room and it seemed that every-one had vanished from the palace and he was alone.

Words which he could not say, which would be unforgivable, piled up behind Fingon's teeth.  
_ Thou doth not want me, and I have tried to give thee pleasure. I have listened to my father, who told me how to please a woman. I have failed. Perhaps thou doth think that when I lie with thee I will not think of Maedhros and in that thou art correct. I cannot think of him when I am with thee, I would go mad. There is no love in thee, but there is much hate. _

''I have, and will again,'' was all he permitted himself to say.

''Look at me !''

He lifted his head from the papers under his hand and sat back.

''I am thy wife, and thou wilt not shame me! I want a daughter to raise in the ways of the Laws! Perhaps the fault is with thee that I do not conceive. Perhaps thou dost not know how to take a woman!''

''Have I ever shamed thee?'' Fingon demanded, ignoring her last words.

''When thy mind is not on me, is on _him!_ So yes, I am shamed! Thou art an unnatural thing, as cursed as that handless love of thine...''

''Enough!'' The word rang in the room. "Thou wilt be silent. I have never shamed thee, and the Fëanorions have not been here since our wedding. What more wouldst thou have of me? For thou doth not love me, and well I know it!"

"I _want_ my _husband_ in my bed! I want a daughter from thee! But I know what thou doth crave and so do others!" She leaned forward. "_Damned, cursed _ as much as they. Die in pain and be forever lost!"

The last words were spat. Something smashed. Ereinion jerked back, then was tumbled to the ground as his mother raged from the room, skirts aswirl. The edge of the door struck his brow, and he cried out, but in her anger his mother did not notice, did not look back.

Fingon strode to the door to draw it closed and saw a small figure kneeling on the floor in a cloud of dark hair, bare legs folded under him. Surprised, he picked his son up. Ereinion squeezed his eyes shut, clasping the moppet desperately.

''Ereinion?''

Strong arms held him, and he smelled the clean aroma of linen and some rich perfume. He knew, because his mother had told him, that his father did not like displays of affection, but he was afraid and hungry for touch. He gasped: "I am sorry, Sire!" and buried his face into the crook of the warm neck, clinging ferociously, the moppet still gripped in one fist.

He felt himself carried. When his father sat down, still cradling him, the feeling was one of such blissful security that he never wished to move again. Fingon reached for a bell pull and after a moment a voice said: ''Sire?''

''Aenon, bring me honeyed milk and some mulled wine.''

''Yes my lord, on the instant, and there should be fresh honey-cakes.''

''I think my son will like that, wilt thou not?'' A gentle hand smoothed back his hair and Ereinion sighed, melting more tightly against the hard chest.

''I saw a dark tower, Sire,'' he whispered. ''And a mountain of fire, and...some-one...evil...I was afraid.''

The gentle stroking paused for a moment.  
''It was only a dream. Do not heed it.'' He felt the kiss on his hair. ''Come to me, if such things trouble thee again.''

Ereinion gulped back a sob, his arms clinging harder. ''Thou art n-not angry? Mother said I am n-not to disturb thee.''

He felt his father's body stiffen and shrank back, his eyes wide.

Fingon looked at his son, forcing back the outrage which drove through him like a spear. He saw the fear, felt the trembling.

''Oh, my son.'' His fingers traced the child's delicate, molded face. The huge star-blue eyes exactly matched his own. ''Why would I be angered? I love thee! Thou art a blessing to me. I command thee to come to me, understand? This is a command from thy prince.'' He smiled faintly. ''Wilt thou obey me, Ereinion?''

A flood of relief passed through the slender body. The child's arms tightened.  
"Oh yes, _adar!_"

_ This is beyond bearing, she would seek to set a distance between me and my own son? _

Fingon wished beyond wishing that his son could have been raised by he and Maedhros. As he had reminded Rosriel, his cousin had not come west since the wedding, although messages were exchanged by bird – formal ones, since Fingon suspected Rosriel had people who would intercept them.

He wondered, as he often had, if this increasing bitterness was his fault, but he knew that even if he were blameless, this estrangement from Ereinion _was_ his fault. It was not that he did not see his son. He watched him at times, in the gardens, with his maids, heard him playing little flutes, and spent time with him in his rooms. But Rosriel was always there, and the child was quiet, formal, polite. Locked in his own unhappiness, Fingon had not realized _why_ his son was so subdued.

He had been blind and selfish he thought, as he gently prised Ereinion away to kiss the bruise forming above one sleek brow. He drew the small lithe form close against him once more, feeling the absolute love there.

"Spring has come," he murmured. "I will take thee out riding with me."

''Truly, Sire?'' The piquant little face rose, eyes shining.

''I am not _Sire._ I am thy father,'' Fingon smiled, warmed all the way to his soul. ''Yes, we will go, but first, thou wilt eat.''

The door opened, admitting his chamberlain with a tray. Honeyed milk was poured for Ereinion, hot wine for Fingon, who watched as his son ate and drank, casting him looks from under thick lashes.

''Bring him some clothes , Aenon,'' Fingon said. ''I am taking him riding. Send to the stables. And Aenon...I want it known to all that my son sees me whenever he wishes. Yes, there will be times when I am in counsel, or in training, but he too will be a prince of his people one day. He will accompany me when I travel, and sit with me in the council chamber.''

Ereinion choked delightedly on a crumb, which sent him into a spasm of coughing. Fingon patted his back and the chamberlain poured more milk.

''I will speak to my castellan. This is an order. And it will over-ride any others. I do not wish to hear that any one of my people kept him away from me. _ Any one_, it matters not whom. Dost thou understand?''

''Perfectly, Sire,'' Aenon nodded. ''When wouldst thou see Angul?''

Fingon glanced at the sun. ''I know not how long we will be out. Tell him I will see him when I return. Send to the kitchens and have them prepare food and wine and juice. Send also to Basael and Borin, they can accompany us.'' He ruffled the black head bent over the milk goblet. ''But we will ride together, thee and I.'' ~

~~~

Fingon drew his son's long hair back in two simple braids and then turned him around. Fingolfin had said Ereinion was the image of Fingon as a child. Now, in his small boots, breeches and tunic, he did indeed look like a perfect miniature Fingon, and those silver-blue eyes were fairly blazing with happiness.

Fingon resisted the temptation to lift him in his arms, wanting them to walk together as princes. He held out a hand. ''Come then, my son.''

Pacing his steps to the child's smaller ones, they walked down the hallway, a wide flight of stairs and along a gallery where nobles spoke and sipped wine. They bowed and smiled at the sight of their prince leading his son by the hand.

Lords Basael and Borin, two of his knights, were already waiting in the inner ward and they too bowed, gravely smiling, to the young prince.

''Sire,'' Borin said. ''We did not know it thou didst wish thy son's pony readied?''

''No, my friend. Ereinion will ride on Elroch with me.''

Fingon mounted. Borin lifted Ereinion to sit before him and they left the inner ward and crossed the great outer one to the gates. Before them Hithlum rolled in its cloak of green, a cool land, but beautiful and fertile, the scent of fern, moss and heather always in the air. Since the Noldor had settled there it seemed to welcome them in beauty with warm summers and rich harvests, and their mansions and palaces sprang up from the northern-green appearing as white pearls on an emerald cloak.

''Sire!'' A guard called from above the gate-house, and Fingon drew rein.

_ Rosriel. I am in no mood to argue with her. She has gone too far, and I am too angry._ His lifted face was like stone. ''Is it news of war? Or the High King?''

''No, Sire, but...''

''Then I will hear it when I return. This morning I ride with my son.''

''Yes, Sire, I hear thee, but...''

''_No,_'' Fingon said, and the guard visibly drew back. ''I will deal with _all_ matters when I return.''

Thus saying, he tuned Elroch and the great horse floated into a canter away from the fortress, southward.

On the battlement, Dinendir stared after the horses and then looked east.  
''He will strip me of my post when he knows this,'' he muttered, knowing that the statement was an exaggeration, and turned to his companion with an internal sigh. ''Go to the Castellan and tell him that the House of Fëanor arrives.''  
From his vantage point a full thirty ells above the ground, he could see, far off, the flame-like banners of Maedhros, Maglor and Caranthir Fëanarion.

''Faerveren.' He glanced back at the inner palace and saw, high up at a window, Rosriel. There were things which Dinendir did not know, or affected not to and chose to ignore, but he loved his prince. ''Yes, sir? '' The guard beside him saluted.

''Go down and meet Lord Maedhros and his brothers. Inform them that the Prince has ridden out. They may,'' he added. "wish to ride on to meet him."

** Gil-galad.**

They were riding without saddles, and as the ground opened before them, Fingon rose to stand on the stallion's strong back, holding his son in his arms. Ereinion gasped and then threw back his head laughing, as their hair mingled in the wind of their speed. He stretched out his hands. Cool air swept past his fingers.

The horses jumped a clear brook and slowed to pass through a stand of silver birch. On the other side the stream widened into a pool, and the greensward around it was soft and drenched in the sun.

''We will halt here,'' Fingon said, and the warriors spread out food, wine, and milk for Ereinion, as father and son strolled to the water, which reminded Fingon of the pools in Tirion. He knelt, seeing their reflections against a blue sky and put his arm about his son's slender shoulders. The child leaned against him.

''I like this _adar,_'' Ereinion murmured. ''Can we stay here?''

"For a little while," Fingon smiled. "But remember, I have commanded thee, and thou wilt be with me now." He kissed the smooth cheek beside his, watching their reflections. Sunlight broke through their images like golden flame.

Ereinion said: ''Whom is that, _adar?_''

The words came from long ago. It was his own voice, as he stood beside Fingolfin in Tirion and watched a group of riders enter the ward lead by one tall and beautiful man with a mane of copper-red hair.

''Father?'' his son asked again. Fingon raised his head quickly.

Three riders were approaching the stream, their mounts pricking their way across the turf with soundless grace. Two heads of hair were liquid black, the other blazed in the sun, molten copper and bronze in serpentine patterns.

Slowly, one hand resting on his son's head, Fingon came to his feet. His eyes burned into starfire.

The Fëanorions dismounted, Maglor and Caranthir a little behind Maedhros, allowing their elder brother to greet Fingon first.

''There was no message to expect thee,'' Fingon said softly, and the love, the _need_ rushed up, as it always did, his sense of joy sweeping away the constant ache. His eyes held the silver ones which were hot and molten as their thoughts. Their emotions met, and spoke the language of lovers.

''Faerveren met us and told us thou hadst ridden out, we chose to meet thee, if we could.'' The familiar voice eased into him like the smooth bite of hot, mulled wine.

_Thank the One I rode out so precipitately!_  
To meet Maedhros in public and with Rosriel, would have been too difficult after their altercation. Fingon did not know if his wife had always hated the Sons of Fëanor, or whether it was rooted in the fact that he loved Maedhros. What he did know was that she loathed them now with a passion she did not bring to the bed. Almost amusing, that was, considering what Maglor and Caranthir had done during the days of the wedding festal. Almost.

''Thou wert not far behind me.'' Fingon dragged his eyes from his lover, turned them to Maglor and Caranthir. ''Be welcome, cousins,'' he smiled. ''And this is my son, Ereinion.''

Maedhros dropped on one knee.  
''Ereinion?'' he said, as the great eyes stared into his. ''I am Maedhros, and here are my brothers, Maglor and Caranthir.''

With a child's endearing dignity, Ereinion bowed, bringing smiles to their faces and looked up again. His dream returned to him at the sight of the silver eyes, the shimmer of the red hair, although the face he had seen had been filled with grief. He could not comprehend that emotion, but something in him felt it, a distant thunder.

''Scion of Kings?'' Maedhros murmured. ''A proud name. But those eyes, Fin. They are matched to thine, like stars. A little star he is. A star of radiance. _ Gil galad. _''

"_Gil galad."_ Fingon repeated. "Yes."

He watched transparent expressions flit across the delicate face as his son reached to touch the red hair, just as he had once done.  
Suddenly he was aware of how much this naming meant to Ereinion, touching something deeper than the child understood. The small body flung itself at Maedhros, and was caught up. He tucked his head into the hollow of the throat.

''I was waiting,'' Fingon said. ''for thee to name him.''

Standing close to Borin, Maglor and Caranthir watched in silence. Time seemed to have looped back on itself.

''The young lord is very like our prince,'' Basael remarked, from where he was heating wine over a fire.

''A true stamped image,'' Maglor agreed. "Think thou not, Caranthir?"

''Yes and in character also, it seems,'' his brother said thoughtfully.

Borin poured the spiced wine into silver goblets set with amber and handed one to each to the brothers.

Basael said, in an under-voice: ''The Prince is to issue a _proclamation_ that his son is always to be permitted to see him and travel with him, wherever he goes. I do not repeat gossip, my lords, when I tell thee that the lady has been attempting to keep the prince and his son apart by making it seem as though she were always with him. Last Midwinter my lord me to find Ereinion. A servant of the lady informed me that he was with Rosriel and not to be disturbed, and so I took that message back to the prince. But later Borin...'' He looked at his friend, whose mouth set for a moment, but then took up the commentary:  
''A time later, I passed along the hallway leading to the prince's chambers and saw that the child's door was a little ajar. I heard him crying. I knocked, and then entered. He was alone and said that save his maid, he had been alone since the evening before. I was unsure if...if our prince,'' he paused. ''Truth to tell, I was unsure if the Prince desired to see him overmuch, so I said nothing. I took him to see my wife. She loves him dearly. He is a beautiful child, only far too quiet, but from what he said to my lady, it was clear that he was often alone, save for nurses. Amaldien told me that Rosriel had been in her own chambers with her ladies all the evening before and all that day.''

Caranthir's eyes blazed. ''The she-wolf !'' Maglor laid a hand on his arm, although he too, looked furious.

''She plays her games with a child. But now at least that is mended. A proclamation? ' He raised his brows. ''That is to ensure that no-one aids and abets Rosriel in keeping them apart, I would guess.''

Basael nodded. ''And if perchance our prince should travel to Himring to take messages from the High King, he will take his son with him.''

Maglor looked at the dark head tucked tightly into Maedhros' neck.  
''Good,'' he murmured. ''They both will be most welcome.''

Caranthir was still exuding rage. ''If it were not for our brother and Fingon, I would take great pleasure in telling...'' Maglor shook his head, and his younger brother swallowed the words.

_I wish he were ours to raise together, _ Fingon breathed in the rich, fiery scent of love and life. " Come, let us sit, Gil."

Fingon watched as his son sat between himself and Maedhros and began to talk. He saw his cousin's patience, the tenderness in his face. It reminded him so very sharply of himself in his youth; Maedhros had ever been kind to him.

_ Thirteen years, and I know that is naught to us, but it has dragged like a long winter night before dawn breaks. _

Gil-galad, sparkling, looked up at him.

''_Adar,_ he makes thee smile.''

''Both of thee, Gil. Both of thee make me smile.'' He smoothed the long black hair. ''We will stay here a while, shall we?'' Receiving a vehement nod, he laughed, raised a hand toward the two guards.

''Will m...mother shout at thee, _adar?_'' Gil-galad asked anxiously.

Indeed, she probably would, thought Fingon, but the weather promised fair, with gentle, southerly winds, there was no reason not to stay out some few nights.

''Gil, do not worry. We princes have a duty to greet and entertain our friends, do we not?'' He winked conspiratorially eliciting a delighted chuckle. ''Baesel, Borin, return to the palace. Order things brought for a camp of some nights: tents, wine, clothing, food and drink.''

''Yes, Sire.'' The two bowed and walked to their horses with shared smiles.

"Wilt thou be my friends?" Gil-galad asked Maglor and Caranthir with a hint of uncertainty. ''I have none. Only moppet.''

A silence fell. Maglor broke it gently. ''We are already thy friends, Gil-galad. I will play to thee this night, when the stars are out.''

''I have a little harp. '' Then the small face fell. ''But I did not bring it.''

''I will let thee play mine,'' Maglor smiled.

''And that,'' Maedhros said as the child beamed. ''Means that he is certainly thy friend, Gil'. ''

''Canst thou all stay a long time?''

''Lord Maedhros rules his own land, far to the east, Gil as do his brothers,'' Fingon told him. ''They are of the House of mighty Fëanor, and have realms of their own. But one day, I swear - we will be together.''

The sun had passed the midpoint of the sky when Baesel and Borin returned with a train of servants bearing gear. Tents were set up with practiced skill, and then all returned to the palace but the two guards.

They walked beside the stream, Maedhros and Fingon with Gil-galad between them. The child found it only natural that the two walked so close their hips touched, and sometimes murmured words which he did not understand. He knew his father was joyous, and he was was with people he loved with an instant and youthful intensity. He too, for the first time in his short life, was also happy. ~

~~~

 

  


  
** Chapter End Notes: **   


  


cyser - old term for cider.

  



	13. Before Darkness Falls

**Before Darkness Falls.**

~ Gil-galad had never known days so wonderful. He felt loved, protected, and although he was young, he sensed the bond between his father and Maedhros. And Fingon _smiled,_ something he had rarely seen.  
He opened like a spring flower. The wellspring of warmth within him, which, had it been stifled, might have twisted him into coldness, overflowed. He possessed the same nature as his father, loving deeply, almost obsessively.

The season misted the air with blossom as they rode without any fixed destination. They camped where they chose, beside clear streams, whispering silver birches, and in the evenings Maglor's harp-notes would rise to the stars and his golden voice wove songs. Gil-galad would listen in wonder as images grew before his eyes. He saw two Trees, tall white towers of a shining city, three flaming jewels, the face of a legend...

The Fëanorions' were a clan of fierce passions, loving, hating, capable of coming together like an impenetrable shield wall against outside interference. They drew Gil-galad into their circle with open arms.

Sometimes Maglor and Caranthir would take Gil-galad walking or riding and he would know, without explanation, that his father and Maedhros were were together. He understood their love without realizing the implications. Innocent himself, all he felt was the love.  
One day, running among a copse of trees, Maglor chasing him, he came upon a small clearing and saw his father leaning back against the bole of a tree. Maedhros had placed his hands both sides of Fingon's head, their bodies touched, and then their lips, and there was something both so fierce, so tender in it that the child was awed. He stepped back, utterly silent and ran back the way he had come, slipping his hand into Maglor's when he found him. He said nothing. 

But gradually, their direction turned back to the fortress. The plunge in Gil-galad's heart was mirrored in Fingon's, whom knew the reception they would receive, and the child's joy dimmed. He grew ever more silent, and when they saw the towers and high walls where the banners flaunted in the wind, he pressed back against his father's chest as if to sink into him. Fingon's arm locked around him as a high, clear horn call sang through the air.

Servants came forward, and Fingon lead the way to a warm room of marble and velvet, with many cushioned settles. Hot wine and honeyed milk was brought and Fingon said, greeting his castellan: ''There are chambers prepared for my guests?''

''Yes, Sire. They have been ready since the Fëanorion banners were seen approaching.''

''Good, I will escort them myself. Tonight we feast.''

~~~

Rosriel had come to her feet on hearing the trumpets herald the return of her husband. Seven days and nights he had been gone, in the company of the cursed ones but tonight, and all the nights they defiled Hithlum with their presence, would be _her_ time. She knew Fingon would not avoid her. He was too inherently courteous, and she needed another child, another piece in her game against Maedhros Lackhand and her husband. A girl this time, she vowed, to raise in purity of body and spirit.

Before her pier glass, she admired herself as her ladies stepped back, one twitching the skirt into place. The gown was cloth-of-gold, the girdle fashioned in the design of the House of Fingolfin, sapphire and silver. Her hair was intertwined with gems and fell to her waist, jewels gleamed on her breast and wrists and fingers. She smiled, satisfied, at her reflection.

_Her_ husband, would not seek out Maedhros the cursed, Maedhros Handless and Dispossessed while he and his brothers besmirched the court. For all Fingon's unclean love for his cousin, he had not stinted on his duties at their wedding and he would not now.  
Maedhros did not own him any more.

She did.

And she would see him dead.

Beckoning her ladies, she passed from her chambers to the feast-hall, where she paused a moment. The heralds announced her and she swept in, her head under the circlet held high and haughty.

Fingon was already seated at the dais, her son on a chair stacked by silk cushions beside him. Maedhros and his brothers sat next to Ereinion.

Had she been able to admit it, she would have been struck by the degree of beauty arrayed before her: the sons of Fëanor in rich velvets, eyes like polished steel, Fingon jet and alabaster. But she could not see it, her hatred had always run too deep. She wondered at times that they did not die of it.

He dared to seat them at the high dais! Her eyes burned as she crossed the great room. All rose and bowed to her. Fingon came to take her hand and formally lead her to her seat at his right.

With perfectly calculated insult, Rosriel inclined her head to her guests and disposed herself, picking up a golden goblet brimming with iced wine.

''Well, husband.'' She sipped, not looking aside. ''I trust thou didst have a pleasant time. Although I would have appreciated it hadst thou informed me thou wished to take our son with thee. Do so next time.''

''Gil-galad was perfectly safe.'' Fingon's voice was expressionless, but the name brought Rosriel's head about abruptly.

''_Gil galad?_'' she demanded. ''Thou hast named him that? Why?''

"Prince Maedhros gave me that name, Lady-mother." Her son spoke up, his voice quavering slightly. Maglor, watching, recognized the impossible gallantry in the act. The child was trying to deflect Rosriel's anger, draw it down upon himself. He stepped back, his small form a frail barrier. The great eyes looked up at his mother from under the circlet on his brow. 

''It is a beautiful name...'' His voice faltered at the burst of chilling anger in her eyes.

Maglor silently drifted closer, Caranthir joining him in unspeaking solidarity as they ranged themselves behind their cousin and brother. Fingon's hand came down gently on his son's shoulder.

''As he says, Maedhros gifted him with that name,'' Fingon affirmed. "Does it not suit him well?"

''A gift from a Fëanorion.'' Rosriel's teeth showed in something which was no smile, and then, in a voice pitched to carry to all in the chamber, she said, ''We should be gifted with more children, my husband. I will expect thee this night.'' And into his mind, she said, with vicious sweetness: _ Thou wilt come to me this night, or I will stand here and tell all in this hall where they might find thee; wallowing in filth with Lackhand. And I will ensure all know,_ Fingon the Valiant.

She was startled at the fury, naked and wild, which blazed back at her from her husband's eyes and turned a pettish shoulder, taking a long sip of wine.

''I will not call thee Gil-galad, my son. Thou wilt not answer to it,'' she stated in a voice thin as a lath. ''Thou art Ereinion, my Scion of Kings, remember that.''

Gil-galad bent his head over his food, his appetite quenched. He loved his new name, not simply because of its meaning but because it had been given to him with affection. The last days had been made of joy and laughter. Returning to this palace, which was beautiful and had always been his home, should not have felt as if he were stepping into a cold, barren wasteland.

''I like Gil-galad, my Lord,'' he whispered. Maedhros' hand touched his cheek and he nestled against it for a moment, while his own went out to his father, felt long fingers enclose it.

Maglor shared a wordless glance with Caranthir and received the mental equivalent to a shrug of acceptance.

_ Will he have that concoction to mix with wine? _  
Maglor cast the question at Fingon, whose only outward manifestation of surprise was a slight clenching of his fingers around the wine goblet. The look in the eyes faded from anger to troubled sorrow.

''Wilt thou play for us, brother?'' Maedhros asked then, and Maglor nodded and walked to the great harp. He drew the cover from it and sat down, running thumbs and fingers down the gleaming strings, testing the tones. The guests listened, drawn into the visions, the enchantment woven by the peerless voice, the singer's face was remote, living within music as he sang.

There came the jarring sound of a chair pushed back. Rosriel rose ostentatiously, shaking out her skirts, calling her ladies about her as she swept from the hall, but not one note sounded false under Maglor's fingers. She cast a curse at him in her mind. Had she not intended Fingon to come to her this night, she might have summoned Gil-galad, but he would only be in the way.

~~~

The moon was sinking, its light pouring in through the great window of multi-hued glass, when Maglor stilled the strings and raised his eyes. Fingon had drawn Gil-galad onto his lap, and the small black head lay against his shoulder. He thanked Maglor as he rose, and Baesel stepped forward, offering to take the child from him. Fingon shook his head.

''I will take him, my friend. We will escort our guests to their chambers.''

Baesel opened the door to Gil-galad's room, and turned back the covers of the bed. Fingon smoothed the soft hair and kissed his son's brow, cradling the small cheek with his palm before stepping back. Had there been no guests, and Rosriel simply been displeased her husband was showing an interest in their son, Fingon would have stayed to ensure that she did not disturb the child's sleep, but he knew that this night she would not. She expected him to go to her.

He moved aside to allow Maedhros to take his place, his heart warmed by the love he had felt grow between the two in a few short days.

With courtly manners, and a long look at Maedhros, he bade them peaceful rest at the doorway of the guest chamber and went to his own.

Something akin to acute distaste clenched within him. He understood the necessity of this marriage, yet it had become, if possible, more twisted, more ugly, more difficult, than at the beginning. Yet should he permit Maglor and Caranthir to take his place again? He knew that was unfair, deceitful but the thought of coupling with Rosriel in a savagely anomalous lust which would drive the recipient of the potion to sate themselves anywhere, with any-one, sickened him with Maedhros so close.

His head came about at the soft tap on the door which connected his chamber to the guest-rooms Fingolfin occupied when he was here. It swung silently open, admitting Maglor and Caranthir, who said, in an under voice, without preamble: ''I hope, dear cousin that she still wishes it dark in the room?''

"I cannot agree to this," Fingon protested. "Not this time." _And I will._

''And dost thou remain with her or leave her?'' Maglor asked.

''She knows I leave, as soon as I may. She does not want me to stay.''

''She does not love thee. I think she never did. She wants to control thee: thee and thy son.''

"But is that my fault?" Fingon demanded. "Have I twisted what she might have been by not denying my love for thy brother? I have never said it in plain words. I have never taunted her with it, but she knew. I think she knew as soon as I returned from Himring."

"People talk. And there are many, let us be honest, that do consider us cursed, but who love thee and thy father's House." Caranthir shrugged it away. "Perhaps they believed that Rosriel would cause thee to forget, or that thy marriage was a sign that thy love for Maedhros had died."

''Ah yes, some loves cool down to ashes, I know,'' Fingon almost snarled. ''Not this one.''

"I never believed it would." Maglor placed a hand on his shoulder. "And I told thee and I meant it, that anything I could do for thee I would. Let us give thee this time."

''Thou also?'' At the quirked brow, Fingon continued: ''Thou dost also feel that we do not have long?''

After a moment, Maglor said, ''I believe it would have been wise to strike at Morgoth before this. We thrive and Men add to our strength and are valiant. Yet we were loathe to rouse the Oath. And I fear we will regret it. I cannot answer thee, cousin. I only ask thee to let us give thee and Maedhros something while we can.''

''There is grave wrongness in this.''

''And I have no doubt we will pay. So be it.''

''Thou wilt alert me if aught miscarries?'' Fingon looked at Caranthir, who nodded.

''I will remain in this chamber. Are any like to come?''

''Not unless my father arrives, or we are attacked.'' Fingon moved to pour wine, and took a small phial, adding a few drops to the goblet. He hesitated for a few heartbeats and Maglor took it from him, drank it off.  
He took a deep breath, grimacing as the lust began to bubble like poison through his veins. How wrong indeed it was, both the deception and the fact that the only time he could feel arousal was under the influence of this potion. He went to the bedchamber and changed his formal clothes to a short chamber-robe, easy to toss aside. His erection was hard, painful and there was nothing but an almost virulent distaste in him, as if he had eaten rancid meat and wanted to vomit.

Fingon took a key and walked to the door which lead into another connecting passage. This one was locked, He inserted the key and turned it, lifting the latch.

"Cousin..."

''Do not make me tarry, or I may take Maedhros' place with thee.'' Maglor tried to jest, to lighten the darkness of the moment and his words surprised a choke of laughter from Caranthir. A reluctant, grateful humor jumped into Fingon's eyes. Resting a reassuring hand on Fingon's shoulder for a moment, Maglor slipped into the corridor. The amusement on his face faded.

_ It should not be like this. I will never know what it feels like again for soul and body to flame together out of pure desire..._

Fingon quietly closed the door. Caranthir said, behind him: ''Go. All will be well. This is not to shame Rosriel, although by the Hells, she begs for it; this is for thee and my brother. Go.''

Fingon traversed the passage which lead to the guest chamber and stepped into gentle lamplight, the scent of honeyed wine, and the gleam of copper hair.

No words. They needed none. He closed the space between them, and fell into fire. ~

~~~

Rosriel said not a word, but the air of satisfaction about her was like a heavy perfume. Her nails raked down Maglor's back as he possessed her. It did not feel as if she were in the throes of passion but were marking him, a cat clawing at timber to sharpen its claws, mark where it had been. There were no moans of delight, just her deeper breathing until he released himself into her. Black depression came down on him.

''Stay with me a while,'' she ordered. And it _was_ an order. Perhaps she thought Fingon would go straight from her to Maedhros. This, Maglor had not foreseen, but should have. He frowned in the darkness, then settled back. She laid a hand on his arm and her fingers dug painfully into his flesh.

''Not so rough, _husband._'' It was a hiss, a warning. ''I am thy wife, not one of those trulls Men pay for.'' Then her tone became contemptuous. "Animals, all of thee."

Maglor lay rigid and unmoving, hating himself, wondering how the act of coupling could be reduced to something so base, so empty. He wished then that sin or no, his father had possessed him, shown him the burning glory of passion, left him with a memory of how it could be. Would it have been easier to live with the guilt of having tasted forbidden fruits than with this wretched distaste?

When the first faint light showed shapes in the room being drawn out of the night, he rose, swiftly, picking up his robe, leaving the room before Rosriel could stir or protest.

Caranthir was standing at the window, his hand curled in the heavy velvet.

''Why wert thou so long?'' he demanded, pouring pale wine into a cup and passing it to his brother, who drank.

''She thought to prevent her husband from flying into our brother's arms the moment he left her.'' Maglor shuddered as the wine coursed into him, dispelling some of the heart-sick chill in his veins. ''I need to bathe.'' He shrugged off the robe, but it was not until Caranthir raised the mass of heavy hair to soap it, that he saw the red wheals down his back.

''What, has she learned passion?''

"No," Maglor replied. "She marks him as her own."

***

Maedhros joined them not long after, and at his look of glowing languor, Maglor felt that the night had been worth it. But his brother's eyes were somber as he reached for him.

''Do not think I do not know what this does to thee,'' he murmured.

''Do not think I do not know what these years have done to _thee,_'' Maglor responded. ''I love no-one else, I am not betraying a wife. Peace, it is good to see thee look this way.'' He drew his fingers through the bright, tousled mane lovingly. "It has become far too rare."

''It occurred to me that our cousin has not heard the reports from the Dwarves who pass through my lands, of further attacks on their people by orcs out of the north.'' It was Caranthir who spoke and Maglor stopped with his goblet half way to his lips.

''Neither have I heard that.''

His younger brother threw him a wink, straight-faced.  
''Is Fingon not High Prince? Perhaps he should journey back with us so he may take a report to the King. I will make him welcome at Helevorn.''

''Well, it could be true,'' Maglor mused. Attacks on the Dwarves had been how Maedhros had come to be gifted with what the so-called Dragon helm of Dor-lómin. He had sent it to Fingon, after the prince had driven Glaurung the dragon back to Angband, and Fingon had given it to Hador the Golden haired, when he was made Lord of the Men of Dor-lómin.

''That must indeed, be why we came here.'' He and Caranthir both placed an arm about Maedhros and smiled at one another conspiratorially.

''Thou wilt both feel better away from Hithlum.'' Maglor murmured.

***

Fingon dressed and left his chambers, his body and spirit singing the melody of love, his aura star-bright in the soft gray light of morning and called to Baesel softly: ''Have some-one bring food to my son's room.''

''Yes, Sire.'' Baesel slipped away down the passage.

Gil-galad was still asleep, his silken hair in disorder over the pillows, his moppet tucked under one arm. He looked perfect, fragile, delicate — and at peace.

_ And yet....A great darkness looms over us, mounting higher and higher. One day it will fall upon us. My father knows it, and thou dear one, did dream..._

The door opened softly, and he reached out a hand, without looking. Maedhros clasped it, came across to stand beside the bed and their lips met in a fusion of intense sweetness.

Gil galad awoke from a dream...a dream of great hosts marching under streaming, brilliant banners, and there rode the bronze-haired warrior with Maglor's face who looked at him with pride and love and some emotion he had no name for...

He saw, in his dream, his father embracing Maedhros, kissing him and a glow swept through him, a feeling of goodness and security. Sitting up, he lifted his arms, asking silently to share in this closeness, and Fingon turned, swept him up between himself and Maedhros, kissing the sleep-mussed hair. Gil-galad threw his arms around his father's neck for a moment, clinging hard, before turning and reaching out to Maedhros trustfully, eyes huge and drowsy. Gathered into the left arm, he rested his head on the hard shoulder and Fingon felt his throat close with emotion.

_Gil is the only fine thing of this travesty of a marriage. When I look at him I cannot not regret it._

''Caranthir has spoken of orcs attacking the Dwarves,'' Maedhros murmured, and Fingon's brows drew together, smoothing out when he saw the sparkle of mischief in his cousin's eyes. ''He thinks that perhaps, while there is peace, thou shouldst ride to Helevorn and bring back a report to thy father.''

''It is a matter which I must look into,'' Fingon agreed, as the smiles grew on their mouths. ''Indeed, father has been interested in the Dwarves for some time.'' He looked at his son. ''It is a long way, a difficult road, so we shall take a detachment of guards.'' Opening the door he called for Borin. ''We ride to Helevorn,'' he said. ''We leave as soon as may be, and thou wilt accompany us, and Gil-galad also.'' He rubbed his son's back and the star-blue eyes finally opened. 

''Gil, wouldst thou like to come on a long journey with me, to the lands of Caranthir?''

"Yes, father!" Gil-galad snapped awake. "_Please._"

''Come then.'' Fingon washed him and dressed him in travelling clothes, and Baesel brought him a cup of honeyed milk and an oat-cake.

''We will stop to eat on the way,'' Fingon promised and strode from the room.

~~~

On the steps leading to the ward, Rosriel caught up with them. Her hair was disordered, a robe flung over her night-robe. She might have looked lovely, disheveled and bed-warm, save for the ice in her eyes.

''Whither goest thou?'' she hissed.

''To Helevorn, lady, where reports have come to Prince Caranthir of attacks on the Dwarves who trade with us through his lands.'' Fingon turned from her as his stallion was lead forward.

''We have not discussed this and thou wilt not take our son on such a perilous journey.'' 

''With so many warriors in this company, we can ensure his safety.'' Fingon lifted Gil-galad. The little face had become pinched and grave as his mother spoke.

"Thou wilt not go," she spat. "Not with my son."

''This is the _duty_ of a prince, Rosriel, and my son is also a prince, is he not. A Scion of Kings?" His brow lifted and he swung astride his stallion, one arm going around Gil-galad.

The hooves struck sparks from the cobbles as they departed.

The morning brightened as they rode, their shadows thrown long behind them, and Fingon's mood lightened with it. Gil-galad had lost his anxious expression, and begged to be allowed to ride with Maedhros. Fingon knew that although one handed, his cousin could hold his son safely and, after they halted to eat, set his son before Maedhros. Gil nestled back trustingly, his eyes wide and everywhere. He did not know that this was ever a hard journey, since it must pass nigh to Nan Dungortheb, but the road the Eldar used hugged as close as possible to the hidden kingdom of Doriath. He could not quite understand why they might not enter the forest that marched alongside them day after day, and which rang at night to the sound of nightingales. His father said that an enchantment lay on it and none might enter. Whom could guess then, that the sons of Fëanor would one day indeed enter Doriath bearing sword and bringing slaughter? On the green-gold spring day, the thought of the oath was far from all of them.

They often rode under the stars and camped late, when Gil-galad would bed down between Maedhros and Fingon to sleep in his father's arms. It was an adventure, but one of absolute comfort, and at times he would fall asleep as they rode, to wake and find that they had journeyed yet further.

Spring was in full and fecund bloom about them as, one day, Gil-galad raised his eyes and saw tall towers on a great, flattened hilltop; a vast fortress flying its fiery banners.

''That is Himring, where Maedhros rules,'' Fingon told him, smiling. ''Thine uncle Caranthir's lands are further to the east, but I think we halt here for a time.''

''Thou art welcome here,'' Maedhros said as through the air came the distant clarion of trumpets, heralding his return.

"Ever Cold, Himring is called," Maglor told Gil-galad. "For a wind blows there, scarce ceasing, but within it is beautiful and all comfort."

''I do not mind the cold.''  
They smiled at the earnestness in his assurance.

''The horses need shoeing.'' Caranthir flashed a smile to his older brother. ''I dare say Maedhros will let thee explore for a few days Gil.''

Servants and warriors came out to greet the return of their prince as the company rode under the gatehouse and through the outer ward. Used to his father's palace, here Gil-galad pressed closer to Maedhros and Fingon.

''Thy son is made in thine image, lord Fingon,'' called one of the warriors.

"I thank thee, Fëapolda." Fingon raised his hand, then took his son's, and they were lead inside. Doors were flung open and servants brought in steaming pitchers of hot wine, bowls of fruit, and cold meat.

Great tapestries hung the walls in flame-red, blue and golds. Braziers burned and the air was sweet. They sank down onto cushioned settles, and Gil-galad pulled himself up close to Maedhros. Fingon let him take a sip of the potent wine, rich with spices, and when his son gasped and sneezed, he laughed and poured him warm milk. After eating, Gil-galad grew drowsy and nestled between his father and Maedhros.

''Can we stay forever, father?'' he asked sleepily.

''We can stay for a while, Gil.'' Fingon smoothed the soft cheek, half hidden by feathery black hair. ''We have to go home, but not yet, not until autumn tints the beech leaves the colours of my cousin's hair.''

To Gil-galad, this seemed like far in the future. He was young. The time before him was endless, and he smiled, content, as he drifted into dreams. ~


	14. That Moonless Night In Winter

  
**That Moonless Night In Winter **  


~ There was no moon in the sky that night of midwinter, but the stars were a coronal for the world, breathing light. The fires of the watchers on Ard Galen coiled down to sleep, a frost settled on the grass, webbed it to whiteness.

There was no warning, save for some who felt uneasy, Fingolfin in Barad Eithil, his son further south, and in his fortress in the Gap, Maglor was not asleep. He walked on the battlements as he often did, and as he also often did, he spoke in his mind to his father, as if somehow his voice could reach wherever that brilliant spirit had gone

_ And let it not be the Everlasting Dark! _

He felt it first, rather than heard it: a quiver running through the stonework under his feet, and then the north seemed to explode in fire. Far away, the Iron Mountains belched gouts of flame which feathered into the sky and dropped in showers of burning rain. The shock-waves cracked earthquakes down through the lands. The sky was aflame, a trumpet was sounding.

''Holy Eru!'' Maglor's hands gripped the stone. He watched in horror as the fire raced down from the mountains in rivers, flinging fuming arms across Ard Galen.

He was running, calling for his guards to arm him, to ready his war horse. Steel-shod hooves sparked as he rode out under the gate. There was the acrid scent of burning on the air which choked the breath. Maglor saw, coming flying towards him as if given wings, warriors on panicked war-horses.

''My Lord!'' One of them swerved and came to a halt. ''The fires! Many were caught. They have burned, and the Enemy comes. The fire demons, and orcs without number.''

Maglor could already hear them. 

''They will take the Gap,'' some-one shouted.

''Not easily,'' Maglor said through his teeth. ''_To me!_''

The trumpet sounded again.

The battle was bitter, bloody, the orcs hurled back and broken, only to regroup and press forward again, urged on by loathing for the Elves, by the commands of their Master. Night yielded reluctantly to day, but the visibility became little better. The screams of dying Elves, Men, orcs and horses, the beat of weapon on shield and armor melded together in a storm-roar which became all the sound Maglor had ever known.

His horse reared up, maddened, and Maglor felt it, even before he saw it. Ember and black, a shape of malice and power which seemed to shoulder the smog aside as it rose up.

_Balrog._

In sharp, unbearable glimpses he remembered Dor Daedaloth, saw his father surrounded by these demons, fighting, his sword a flick of lightning, until a whip had snapped out and pinned his arms. Wrath detonated through him so that the Balrog saw him gleam, eyes shining like gems through the mist. Maglor leaped from the stallion's back, and his voice sounded like a trumpet through the tumult.

''_Fëanor!_'' A sword made from iron and lava came down like a hammer and he raised his own, the blade screaming in protest as the two met, the metal screeching.

_ Dear Eru, it is strong. _  
He heard the crack of the whip.  
_No._

With a heave which took all his strength, he pushed, muscles cording on his shoulders and arms, and groaned, locked against it, feeling the heat against his face, his armor. _ Too hot, my armor..._

In an abrupt move he disengaged, ducked, rolled desperately and came up behind the demon as it turned. A streaming mane billowed from its head. Its eyes were coals in the center of a furnace, but the sense of power was more potent than either its size or strength. Ancient, ageless, filled with hatred.

The great sword came down a hands-breadth away from Maglor as he span aside. Holding his own weapon in one hand, he drew his dirk and drove it upward.

The dagger was suddenly hot in his hand, the molded leather of the hilt crisping. He dropped it with a curse as the creature bellowed. Maglor continued his spin, realizing that only in one way did he have any advantage.  
He was swifter.

His sword flashed out, bit and flew back instantly. Only the roar from the Balrog indicated he had struck it. He could not see; his blade was raging white in the presence of evil. If he opened the gap between them too much, that whip would snap around him, as it had his father, too close and the heat...

He could hear arrows flying, saw one vanish in flame as it hit the Balrog. The rest punched into the ranks of the orcs. The whip whistled over his head. He ducked, and felt..._ the sword being tugged from his hand. _  
He held on grimly, pulled closer to the dark, terrible heat, the laval eyes, until he felt himself cry out with pain and let go, jumping back. The Balrog's sword clipped his shoulder as he whipped aside from its bludgeoning descent, numbing the nerves all down his left arm.

_Father..._

The rage and everlasting grief at Fëanor's death seemed to begin in his bowels, rise up in a surge of heat as great as that contained in the Balrog. Perhaps it had been one of those who had imprisoned his father's arms, so that the death blow could be dealt.

His feet caught on something behind him. He staggered and with the instincts of a warrior, somersaulted back, came down. Something caught the light in a reddish glint. The body was an orc's, arrows protruding from its neck. By its hand was a great axe. His action instinctive, Maglor swept it up, hefted it and threw in one smooth motion.

''_ Father! _''

The black iron buried itself in the demons face. There was a gush of red ichor, a scream — and it toppled back, the fire quenched as its spirit fled. Maglor could hear his own harsh, unsteady breathing.

_Oh, father._

The orcs behind the fallen demon gave back, trampling their own dead.

''My Lord,'' one of his warriors called.

''Now.'' A pale shape was beside him, its skin shivering. He ran a hand down the sleek neck, then vaulted into the saddle.

The battle was called Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame and its onset was swift and violent beyond anything the Elves or Men had imagined.  
Behind the rivers of fire, the Balrogs and orcs, came Glaurung the Firedrake. Where the fire burned, great smokes wrought confusion, and they set ablaze the woods on the slopes of Dorthonion, which the sons of Finarfin defended, and the Ered Wethrin, which nevertheless held back the fire by dint of their height.  
But in that onslaught, in the fume and blindness, Fingolfin and Fingon could not reach Aegnor and Angrod, who perished with many of the folk of Bëor.

Finrod, who had ridden swiftly from the south, was cut off at the Fen of Serech, but Barahir of the House of Bëor came and forced a spear wall between the orcs and Finrod, who was able to cut himself out of the battle. It was then that he gifted to Barahir a ring and swore friendship to him, before departing with his people to Nargothrond, but Barahir returned to Dorthonion, though most of his people fled to Hithlum.

In the East the orcs, with great loss, took the Pass of Aglon and the land of Caranthir. Celegorm and Curufin went south to Nargothrond and Caranthir sought out Amrod and Amras, and came with them to the hill of Amon Ereb where they maintained warriors and strength of war.

Himring could not be taken, and in the forefront of his people fought Maedhros, his spirit burning as his father's, and the orcs fled from the death in his face as he lead out sortie after sortie. No news had come to him since the beginning, when warriors, burned and shocked, rode in from Lothlann. There was no hope that any aid would come now; the foe sundered every-one.

''My lord.'' The warriors on the great walls gazed west. From the fortress they could see the burned plain which was now called _Anfauglith,_ the Gasping Dust, a place of death. The legions of orcs had drawn back out of bow-shot of the walls. They had not been able to scale them, since they did not have the wood to built ladders. The slopes of the Hill of Himring lacked trees, only bearing heather and lichened boulders, and even had they been forested, the running flames would have destroyed all that grew. And Maedhros had no intention of waiting until forces brought back wood from the south, or of starving behind his walls, thus he lead out his people time after time to push back the hordes.

''There, my lord.'' The warrior pointed.

Maedhros shielded his eyes from the pale winter sun. He could hear the sound of battle, see dust rising, the flashes from weapon and armor. He raised his right hand, it gleamed silver in the late light.

''We sally, now!''

The gates opened and the horses emerged in a wave with Maedhros at their head.

~~~

Maglor's sword came down, shattering the helm beneath it and he wrenched it free of the iron. His stallion reared up, bunched its powerful quarters and then lashed out, hind-feet impacting on a heavy breastplate. It reared again, forefeet shattering a snarling face into a wash of blood.  
And Maglor fought, his eyes burning, blade scything from side to side.

They had retreated league by league from the Gap, leaving the ground littered by enemy dead and their own. There were so many, always so many coming to replenish the fallen. It seemed the Orcs must breed in Angband like maggots on rotting meat. Again and again his warriors had turned and charged into the pursuing legions with battle cries, and always fewer regrouped. There was no choice but to flee south as Celegorm and Curufin had, or to fight his way to Himring and join his brother.

They were weary now, all of them. Courageous and utterly loyal, like flames in their wrath, yet they were of the stuff of Arda and could die. And all those who remained had sustained wounds, some were poisoned, and these Maglor set in the midst of his warriors, and his heart ached.

The stallion screamed, shuddered under him and he saw a Great Orc lunge back, the point of a heavy spear dripping blood. A moment later he was gone, trampled. Maglor threw himself to the ground, knowing the mount had been disemboweled, the stench of entrails seeping into the miasma of blood and orc sweat. He did not feel his own wounds now; there was no time to do anything but make each stroke count. He was determined to get through to the fortress which seemed as far away as white-walled Tirion across the gulf of the sea...

From somewhere came a shout. The earth drummed under his feet, and the ranks of orcs fell as if an avalanche had struck them. With a wild leap of his heart, Maglor saw Elven armor, horses, the swirl of copper hair catching the low-slanting rays of the sun.

_ Maedhros!_

~~~

The great gates slammed and were barred behind them. People ran forward, healers with medicaments, servants with wine and water. For a moment the two brothers embraced, and then Maglor drew back.

''The Gap is gone," Maglor said. "There were too many. Celegorm and Curufin took their people south, that is the last I heard.''

Maedhros merely nodded. ''Very well, but thou art here. and thou hast saved many of thy people.''

Maglor's shoulders bowed under a weight of despair. ''Not enough, brother. Not enough.''

~~~

_ Angrod and Aegnor have perished....most of the Men of Bëor, Dorthonion is lost...the Sons of Fëanor have fled...only Himring holds...Ard Galen is a wasteland of charred bones..._

The news came in day after day, from Elves and Men fleeing to Hithlum which remained unconquered behind its mountain walls, and with each new tidings, Fingolfin the High King saw the ruin of their hopes.

The despair that had been curled in his soul like a serpent now stretched, bared its fangs and bit. The bite was poison. It raged through his blood.

_We followed my brother, we crossed the Ice, we founded kingdoms, and should never have let Morgoth strike the first blow! And now all is lost. Everything is going down in fire._

As he had known it would.

He had imagined there would be time to consider, but there was none. His last coherent thought was something his half-brother had said to him:  
_We are not so unalike as people would think._

He hardly saw the warriors and servants who stepped back from his path as he plunged down into the ward of Barad Eithil. He did not hear them crying his name as Rochallor, his great white war-horse crashed from the stable. He saw nothing but fire, nothing but death.

The gates swung back. He did not know that he had ordered it. Rochallor was at headlong gallop even as they passed through them. None could have stopped Fingolfin then. His sons were not near, and even for them he would not have halted.

Ard Galen...no, _Anfauglith,_ was ash and ruin. He heard the speeding beat of the stallions hooves smash bone shards, smelled burning. Dust rose behind him. There were legions of Orcs who fled at his appearance. A Power from the West, he seemed, his eyes a starlit blaze of wrath.

It did not seem to take long. He was unaware of anything but the wind in his face, the beat of Rochallor's hooves, then the Ered Engrin, and rising above them like a doom made manifest, the three peaks of Thangorodrim. Below a precipice, the great gates stood like a part of the mountain itself.

There was no fear. He came lightly down from the horse under the shadows of Hell, and lifted his horn to his lips. The sound was Light in a place of louring darkness. He drew Ringil and smote with its hilt upon the gates.

_ ''Morgoth Bauglir, master of Slaves and thralls! Come, show thy face to me! Come out, craven and Abhorred! Dare to meet me. I am Fingolfin, on of Finwë, whom thou didst murder, half brother of Fëanor. I am High King of the Noldor! Come forth!'' _

There was no answer. It seemed as if all Angband held its breath.

And then He came. Fingolfin felt his approach as if Morgoth pushed the very air before him in a dark wall.

The gates flung outward.

Terrible, Morgoth was, armed all in black, with eyes which promised an eternity of pain. Here was something which had once been so high, now fallen into unsounded depths of hate. On his brow gleamed the Silmarilli and this seemed the greatest wrong to Fingolfin, the deepest insult, for the jewels were the eyes of Fëanor.

Under his shadow, Fingolfin shone brighter, his spirit answering to that challenge, knowing it held his death.

A great mace Morgoth bore, and as it came down, like the wrath of mountains, the High King whipped aside, his sword flickered out, a gleam of lightning through cloud. Morgoth howled in pain, and came about, but each time Fingolfin sprang aside from the mace. It gouged rents in the ground that vented acrid fumes.

Again and again Morgoth brought down the mace and each time Fingolfin leaped away, feeling the earth break and shudder under its impact. Ringil bit, bringing black blood smoking from the wounds.  
Through it all, Fingolfin felt no fear. He stepped back, tripped in the scored earth and the hammer of the Underworld, called Grond, came down.

It broke his arm. He heard, oddly clear, the bone snap, the shield crack. The pain blotted out sight for a moment, blasting him from head to heel. He gathered himself to his feet. The ground looked as if it had been turned under some great plow, and he staggered again, regaining balance so that next sweep of Grond shrieked down his cloven shield.

Red agony burst through his skull and Fingolfin felt himself falling. There was a shadow over him, and under it there was no light but his eyes.

Something came down on his chest. Air burst with bubbles of blood from his lips as his ribs cracked under Morgoth's foot. There was no air to breathe, his heart was faltering, his lungs crippled.

But at the last there was clarity. His mind was scoured clean. He raised his sword arm and as it came down, in the final stroke, he seemed to see and feel close at his side, his half-brother. And then Fëanor's eyes were all he could see, diamonds in the last darkness.  
  
_Ñolofinwë._ Sorrow in the word, and love, and pride.  


Ringil sheered into Morgoth's armoured foot, and blood poured forth in a hot, poisonous gush.

Fingolfin fell back, agony a vise about him. He tried to reach out to the one whom had never truly left him, who seemed so close now, at the end.

_ Fëanor,_ he thought.

And died. ~

~~~

  


 

  



	15. Dusk At The Rising Of The Sun

** Dusk At The Rising Of The Sun **

~ The Echoriath surrounding Gondolin rose so high that nothing beyond could be seen, but that winter many believed they saw red light far off in the north, heard the wind chimes move from some deep tumult of the earth.

Thorondor brought the news of the Dagor Bragollach to the city. He told of the destruction, the fires, that the Princes of the Eldar were sundered from one another and that many had died. Turgon, though grieved, would not open the leaguer of the city and send forth his armies to what seemed like utter ruin, though Glorfindel, Ecthelion and others of his Lords begged him to ride out. But the King deemed the time not ripe, and his strength and position better harbored for this time.

There could have been no greater contrast to the battles which raged in the north, the dead and dying, the desolation of Ard Galen, armies of Elves and Men forced back or over-run, to this, the glittering peace of Gondolin.

But there was an utter silence over the city that morning. The sun rose to silence. No bird sang in the trees, even the murmur of the waters seemed hushed.

As if all urged by the same thought people began to emerge from their homes. Guards left their positions, warriors came in from the plain. They did not speak as they converged to the vast square before the Kings palace.

Eagles were flying in the sky, pinions outstretched in the pallor of dawn. The sun crested the mountains, sparking from marble and gems and shimmering in the fountains.

And then she began to darken.

There was dusk at the rising of the sun.

In silence Turgon walked from the city, his people behind him. He strode quickly into the narrow ways where the wind blew bitter from the east through the impassable peaks of stone.

Glorfindel saw the light returning. Upthrust rocks cast sharp black shadows aslant the narrow trail they trod, and struck from silver in a brilliant flash.

A body was laid upon a frost-rimed bolder, a body in rent and singed armor, a flood of raven hair falling across the rock. Beyond it, standing like a guard, was Thorondor, mighty head bowed.

A sound burst from Turgon's throat. He leaped up, knelt and touched the still face, then kissed it and gently, as if Fingolfin were a sleeping child that he feared to awaken, Turgon picked up his father, and carried him down to his people.

Fingolfin's body was broken, telling of shattered bone, there was blood about the mouth, but his eyes still held an afterglow of radiance, a nimbus of beauty.

_Fingolfin..._ Glorfindel could not speak. Turgon looked up, his face wore anguish like flame.

''He met Morgoth.''

''Blessed Eru,'' Glorfindel whispered.

''Thorondor has told me,'' the King continued. ''My father was mad with rage, he rode from Barad Eithel alone, and challenged Morgoth.''

There was nothing to say. What could any-one say that would not sound crass in the face of such a transcendent, insane courage? Who else among the Eldar had dealt the enemy such a blow, though Morgoth was Vala and mighty and one did not pit oneself against what he was and hope to live.

''Seven times my father wounded him.'' Turgon's voice was raw, touched by wonder. ''And Morgoth would have cast his body to his wolves. Thorondor brought him here.''

Oh, there was pride in that! a fierce, defiant pride which bloomed amidst the anguish, like the first spring flowers through snow.

_ They are all going down in death._ Glorfindel lifted his head to the uncaring sky, feeling his eyes burn.

They built a cairn there, over the fallen High King. Ringil, which Fingolfin's hand still clasped, Turgon gently removed as an heirloom of his House. The blade was dulled and black now. One by one, people came forward; maidens, warriors, craftsmen, servants, and laid a stone there in that high place which looked down upon the pearl and silver of Gondolin. And after it was said that no evil thing dared set foot there until doom broke upon the city in fire and blood.

Turgon sent companies of his people in secret down to the Mouths of Sirion and the Isles of Balar to seek for Aman, but shadow and enchantment lay on the western seas and Valinor was hidden. Only one ever returned. And Turgon said to Glorfindel that he believed the breaking of the Siege of Angband was also the beginning of downfall of the Noldor, unless aid should come from the Lords of the West.

***

How could ones soul encompass so deep a grief and yet the body still live? Fingon wondered.

Tol Sirion was lost. Morgoth held the western passes of Sirion and the orcs came down and encompassed Doriath.

After ravaging the Pass of Sirion and taking Minas Tirith, the mighty watch-tower of Finrod, which was after named Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the orcs came upon the folk of Haleth in Brethil. They might have pushed south even unto the Mouths of Sirion, but Halmir, lord of the Haladin sent word to Thingol's Marchwardens and gave valiant battle. And as they fought Beleg Cúthalion lead a great strength of Grey Elves out of Doriath, armed with bows and axes who fell upon the enemy's unprotected flank. The orcs were destroyed to the last and there was peace in Brethil for many years.

Many Noldor and Sindar were taken captive and forced to labor in Angband, and Morgoth's will was set on them and he sent them back to their people to spread lies and fair speech of pardon and truce, and sometimes, because of the Curse of the Kinslaying they were believed.

Fingon heard rumor Maedhros had forsaken him and made truce with Morgoth but that he did not believe. He even laughed a whit wildly; his thoughts in those days were grim, built of grief.

In Hithlum, behind its high mountains, the Noldor still held, and Morgoth knew that he could not yet strike a final and victorious blow. He withdrew his orcs back into Angband and there was respite for a few years, for though Morgoth's victory had been great his losses had been many. He had not guessed the strength and valor of the Elves, or the Men who fought beside them. And although he held Dorthonion and the pass of Sirion the Eldar, recovering from their first route, began to regain what they had lost.

***

"No, _ adar._"

"Gil, thou must." Fingon's face was bruised and white with grief.

_Fingolfin is dead..._

The eagles brought the news. It scorched through Hithlum like a torrent of fire, penetrated to Nargothrond, to Doriath, to the sons of Fëanor, to the Havens of Sirion.

_ Fingolfin is dead. he challenged Morgoth...My father is dead..._

_ And thou didst know, adar, as I know..._

''Let me stay with thee!'' Gil-galad threw his arms about his father and Fingon held him tightly. Shivers racked the youth's body.

''I would not be doing my duty as a king or a father if I allowed thee to stay.'' Fingon drew back and looked at his son. Still so young, still a world of hope in his eyes, now beginning to be smudged by anguish, by fear.

''Gil'. For me.''

A flush burned up on the pale cheeks.  
"My place is with _thee!_"

''I can make it a command. Do not make me do that.'' Fingon, laid his hand on the smooth cheek.

The flush faded to lividity. ''Thou wouldst not! How can I go? _How can I?_''

''How canst thou not? If aught were to happen to me...''

''_No!_''  
The cry echoed in the room, rang back from the pillars. Gil galad shook his head vehemently, his eyes glossed with tears.  
''No, _adar_ no, do not say that, do not think of it! I cannot lose thee. I love thee!''

_I love thee and without thee I will be alone. _

The unspoken words hung between them as if written in fire on the air.

''Thou wilt not be alone, Gil. I will send Baesel and Borin with thee. And Círdan will welcome thee. Thou must go. Morgoth has slain...'' _ Ai, father! _''thy grandsire, dost thou not see? He desires us all dead! And thou art my son and young. For the love thou dost bear me, thou wilt go south.''

Gil-galad's throat convulsed. His eyes were fixed upon his father's as if to brand him on his memory.

''Has there been any word from Himring?'' he choked.

Fingon shook his head. ''Only word by the eagles that he holds, he and Maglor. Caranthir is gone south with the twins. Celegorm and Curufin are in Nargothrond.''

''Father?''

''Yes?''

''I wish we could all be together.'' Gil-galad whispered.

''So do I. One day.'' Fingon drew him close again. ''One day.'' He felt the stifled sobs.

''Come. I have something for thee, thy grandsire would have wished thee to have it.'' His arm about Gil-galad's shoulders, Fingon lead him into an antechamber. On the wall, glinting silver-white, hung a great spear with a leaf shaped point. It was beautiful; runes were engraved over the pale metal and ran liquid in the fall of light through the window.

''My father made it in Valinor.'' Fingon ran his fingers down the incisions. ''_Aeglos,_ it is called. He never used it in battle and thou wilt need to grow before though canst throw it. Thou canst show me - when next we meet.'' Something stuck in his throat.

Dusty gold motes of light danced in the air between them as Gil-galad reached out his hand.  
''I will learn, father. And I will show thee,'' he vowed. ''When next we meet.'' ~

~~~

 

Chapter End Notes:

  


There is nothing in canon to suggest a solar eclipse when Fingolfin died, but to me, it suited his death.

  



	16. Suffer The Little Children

  
** Suffer The Little Children. **

~ The heavy footsteps receded, the growled conversation and raucous laughter going with them.

Like a wraith, the child slid into the room.

Once it must have been a great, clean place where jars were stacked, bunched herbs hung and food prepared. Now it was stained with mud upon the floor, blood on the surfaces. It stank of rancid meat.

But there was one area which was cleaner, where food was prepared for _him _ and the dark, dour men who served him. It was one of these who cooked, but he was not here now. The boy could hear the sound of movement in the store-room.

Soundlessly, he flitted across the chamber, jumping onto the table. As he cast a quick glance back, the candle-light caught one brief flash of great eyes, amethyst colored, and wide with nerves, before long lashes quenched the glitter as he turned to scan the food. Snatching up a round of flat bread, he leapt across to the larger table where the orcs had been feasting.

It was rare to find anything after they had eaten, but sometimes what was consumed was edible: waterfowl from the banks of the Sirion, perhaps rabbit. The boy knew different meats, how they looked and smelled. He had learned that young, when he had watched, hidden in the darkness as an orc had turned something upon a spit. He had seen the flesh weep fat which spattered the flames, the carcass once tall and graceful reduced to...food.

He saw their knives slice bloody meat from thigh and buttock. One orc ripped off an arm to gnaw and the boy uttered a groan of revulsion. He was heard. An orc wrenched open the door, seemed to hesitate on seeing the boy, then with a bark of laughter, he tossed something onto the floor.

''Hungry, young one? Here, nothing like Elf flesh.''

The child's appalled eyes dropped to what lay at his feet. It was a long-fingered hand, curled like claw with the heat, bone jutting from the wrist.

With a sound rising in his throat the boy fled, laughter following him. He forced back nausea until he was alone, then doubled over and retched violently. There was little save water in his stomach to come up, and never had he been so grateful for hunger. Perspiration dewed his brow as he pressed back into the dark corner, breathing deeply, tears slipping down his cheeks.

He did not tell his twin. It was already deeply ingrained in him to protect her.

There was a wing from some fowl here, the carcass stripped of all but shreds of meat. He grabbed it, thrust it with the bread into the cloth he tied about his waist and was gone like a wisp of the dank mist which enshrouded the isle.

His bare feet mounted the stairs, fled along passages unlit and empty. _He_ would not have the orcs close to his chambers unless at need.

At last he came to the room. He reached up, turned the ring, pushed and slid through, easing the door quietly closed behind him. His heart and nerves thrilled as he listened, but it would be to little effect. The Master of the Tower moved silently.

The chamber was poorly illuminated by one tallow dip and dim coals, but it hinted at space, forgotten light and beauty. Drapes like tattered cerements hung around a great bed and before the windows through which seeped moist, cold vapor. A brazier of black iron hissed but did not ameliorate the chill.

A shadow moved, came toward him, a girl smaller than he, ethereal in her slenderness, a tangled skein of black hair about her face. Her eyes were enormous in the uncertain light, mist gray, clear as water. She threw herself against him and he hugged her tightly, feeling her relief at his safe return.

''No-one saw me,'' he whispered, kissing her cheek, then stepped back, unknotting his makeshift scrip and drew out the food. She took it, set it down on the cloth and her small hands tore the loaf apart. He sat down beside her as she plucked at what meat there was, sprinkled it on the meat and handed him the larger portion.

_ Have more, sweet._

She shook her head, reached out and pushed back the thick hair from his face, revealing a bruise like a shadow over his cheekbone.  
"Thou doth need it more, and thou art bigger than I."

''I will save some for us,'' he murmured, and bit in to the bread. It was very good. They were not starved, but near enough to it to savor any food, and the boy had begun to thieve very young, supplementing their meager fare. If he were discovered he was punished, usually a swift, almost careless blow which cast him from his feet, but at times he was beaten. It seemed to depend on how occupied the Master was with other matters. The boy had the unnerving impression there was not even malice behind the blows, and had learned not to cry. It was imperative that he never show his sister any weakness. She depended on him to be strong. He would not reveal his fear or pain to her. Or to _him._

He ate neatly, quickly, folding the remained of the bread over and wrapping it. The girl did likewise and dipped an iron ladle into a bucket of water. He drank, handed it to her, smoothing her back gently, then walked to the window. Bars of iron had been hammered brutally across the aperture, splitting the marble. Once, coloured glass had shone here. Splinters of it, jagged blue, red and gold combed the mist like teeth as it seeped past them. Ivy groped inward, trailing over the stone. It smelled bitter, of black water and forgotten things.

All he knew of beauty was this ravaged splendor of polished marble and glass, the light in his sister's eyes and the ruined glory of they who had built this place, the being he had seen destroyed, its heart ripped out before his eyes. There was war beyond this place. Those shining-eyed beings fought against _ him _ and his minions.

He had tried to escape with his sister, for sometimes it seemed that they were ignored and unwatched. They ran down to the huge ward, and something had come between them and the gates. The shape was lank, grey and it walked upright, but the face and ruff was that of a wolf. The yellow eyes shone like venom. The lips had drawn back from fangs longer than his fingers and a growl, deep with warning, pricked sweat out over his flesh. He was aware then of others around them, slinking beyond his vision. Not for nothing had this place been named the Isle of Werewolves.

Very slowly, his sister's hand gripped in his, he backed away, staring up into the eyes which darkened into red, rubies burning in fire. In their chamber he sank down against the door holding his twin. She shuddered convulsively all night.

He wondered if they were children of the enemy, for when he looked at Vanya he saw the similarities. There was the same white skin, grey eyes, the delicate bone structure of the face, unformed in her as yet, but latent. If so, what use were they? he had seen how the Master dealt with Elves.

He whispered it to her sometimes, as they lay huddled in the huge bed, rich coverlets moldering in the damp.  
''Perhaps we are prisoners. Perhaps _they_ will come and rescue us. We may belong to some-one...and...and one day we will leave this place and see...outside. Mayhap we have a..father and mother....''  
_... who love us ..._

And what was beyond this great tower, this island in the midst of a river, whose waters sometimes sang sweetly through his wary sleep? It could not all be like this. As his small fingers wiped grime from the walls, uncovering shapes of flowers, of leaves, of tripartite designs, as he looked at the fading brightness of the hangings, he knew there must be more.  
He could spend hours touching the intricate carvings, tracing the exuberant decorations. It looked as if the marble itself had been incised and then freshwater pearl or molten gold and silver run into it. Facing the bed was the most beautiful and enigmatic of the pictures: two great trees, graceful and serene. This had been badly defaced, the marks of hammers, picks, chisels scored across it and yet somehow, what remained was untouched by the savagery of the attack, and still shone.

_ Like that one_ he _killed. Still glorious, even at the end..._

It was something he clung to, that there were things which could not be marred.

He stiffened like a hound on point, turned away from the window, walked to his sister's side as the door opened.

It was not that _he_ was grotesque, quite the opposite. The Master was beautiful, with his long pale hair and lavender eyes that could flame gold and red. But the child saw only pitilessness, and his soul flinched. There was no benison for he or his sister behind the fathomless eyes.

''Thou art leaving.'' The voice was the caress of flame over steel.

The boy felt a leap of joy fierce as fire. Leaving...leaving this place of gelid fog and dread to see a world where there was light and beauty. It lasted only a heartbeat before the hope drained away. There was no release in those eyes, only a curious calculation.

Despite the water he had drank moments before, his mouth had gone bone-dry, and he could feel his sister's tenseness. His hand went out in a quick, convulsive gesture to touch her.

''Where do we go, my Lord?'' His voice sounded thin and high.

Sauron's eyes flicked with a remote amusement. ''To our master, slave, to Angband.''

Angband.

The boy had heard that name; he associated it with terror. When the orcs spoke of it, there was fear in their voices. Images would wink through his mind, of monumental dark beauty, of fire, of pits and the screams of those damned while still alive.

''Come.''

There were horses waiting in the ward, rangy, wild-eyed beasts whose ears were laid flat against their skulls. A lead-rein tethered the children's mount to Sauron's. Dark cloaks, far too large for them, were draped about them and the gates were opened.

It was night. As Tol-in-Gaurhoth faded behind them, the ever-present mists thinned, swirled past in tattered shreds.

There were at least five score of orcs before and behind them, and a dozen great trolls, all marching in grim silence. Only the children and Sauron were mounted. The Lieutenant of Melkor glanced back on occasion, and at the touch of those light eyes the boy felt anticipatory fear whip through him. His twins arms clung to him where she sat behind him, her head against his back.

He tried to hold that peculiar, almost gloating gaze until he was defeated and looked up.  
A gasp passed his lips.

He had never seen the stars before.

The sky was clear, a deep blue-black, and against it burst frozen sparks of light, ice-white with auras of palest blue, or red. Some were scattered, others made patterns which his mind traced out and followed. One, like a huge water dipper, or curved hook, wheeled in the north. Another seemed to march upward, a man wearing a sword belt made of light, one arm raised as if in challenge.

Wonder broke through the fear. The sky blurred as his eyes filled.  
''Vanya, Vanya. Look!'' he whispered and felt her indrawn breath.

_ What are they? _

_ I do not know, they are beautiful. _

A bitter wind smelling of faded burning swept down from the north, desolate and dry, but as the moon rose it touched, remote and magnificent, the peaks of mountains which marched north with them. They looked divorced from anything earthly, immaculate and forbidding. The boy knew not that they were the Ecoriath which held in their stony arms the hidden city of Gondolin.

And he saw the sun rise. His eyes teared with the golden light and black spots danced before them as he blinked, turned his head away. _ Light!_ There was Light in the world.

Their journey curved north-east and the mountains fell behind, giving way to lower hills which looked as if fire had swept across them. Here, the ashen land was littered with bone which the heavy feet splintered and crushed: skulls, legs and arms, scorched and brittle, blackened armor which still retained the shape and skill of its design. A place of death and choking dust, no water, no grass.  
To the north loured another mountain range, iron-black, a dense wall on the horizon which grew to fill the childrens' vision. Three enormous peaks jutted upward like carious teeth. In the day they fumed with smokes of strange colors and the wind brought down the acrid scent.

A fortress.

The boy could see watch-towers, a bridge, a precipice sheer as if split with an axe climbing above them. He lifted his head and a swirl of dizziness overcame him. It seemed those three towers so far above were falling, toppling to crush him.

Behind him, he felt his sister's heartbeat resounding through his own flesh and bone. His mouth was dry with dread.

This was not Tol-in-Gaurhoth. This was somewhere more terrible by far.

There was no Light here.

This was the the seat of the Dark.

The great gates swung shut behind them. ~  



	17. Union And Reunion

** Union and Reunion**

~ In the year 467 of the First Age, Maedhros, son of Fëanor, raised up his heart from the depths into which it had descended after the Dagor Bragollach. Like a fresh wind dispersing mist, the tale of of Beren and Lúthien and their recovery of a Silmaril from Angband swept Beleriand and the North.

He was not pleased by the acts of Celegorm and Curufin, and their part in that story. Nor would their own people follow them, and even Curufin's son had remained in Nargothrond. The brothers had come to Himring and fierce words had erupted between they and their elders.

''Thou dost seek welcome here?'' Maedhros demanded. ''Thou art my brothers, yet thou hast acted basely. And Finrod is dead! Celegorm, _how could thou betray him?_''

''Thou couldst have added thy voice to my suit for Lúthien!'' Celegorm retorted, seemingly ignoring the question. Maglor saw something in the eyes which he had never glimpsed before save at Fëanor's death.

Maedhros laughed, a self mocking sound devoid of all humor.  
''Thou didst take her by guile to Nargothrond and imprisoned her. And do not tell me there was any love in that act! She loved - and still does - the Man Beren! He who cut a Silmaril from the Iron Crown and effected a deed that the sons of Fëanor dare not attempt, so it is whispered!''

Furiously Curufin snarled: ''She had power to aid her, through the Maia, Melian, they were both disguised when they went before Morgoth!''

''And does that matter? Could not Morgoth's eyes have seen through that?'' Maglor's question was soft. ''It does not diminish their courage.''

''Do not speak to me of _ courage _ before thou hast thyself stood before the Dark Power and defied him!'' Curufin slashed.

Maglor, who had faced a Balrog in the extremity of his fury and memories of his father's death, said nothing. Maedhros glanced at him. His brother had not told him, either, but those who had witnessed it had spoken of it. But Maglor had demurred.  
''I was beyond myself, any would have done the same, and not a little of it was good fortune. I am not the only man to meet a Valarauka - not the first, nor will I be the last.''

Maedhros raised his left hand before his younger brothers as if declaiming a judgment.  
''Thou art my brothers, but I am wroth with thee, go south to Amon Ereb where Caranthir abides, until my anger is less.''

Celegorm began to protest but Maedhros eyes blazed warning and Curufin took his sibling's arm and drew him from the room.

''It is true,'' Maglor murmured. ''None of us have faced Morgoth, as Fingolfin did. Save thou, and I know that was quite another battle, brother.'' Sorrow lay deep in his words.

"And yet there is hope, it proves that Morgoth is not unassailable.''

''What is in thy mind?''

''Fingolfin was right - we should have struck before. We thought Morgoth quiescent, when all those years he was massing armies, breeding orcs, and more...I deemed us not yet great enough to confront him.''

''Our uncle would not have thee blame thyself for his death.'' Maglor moved closer and laid a hand on the rigid back.  
Did Maedhros feel as he did? That one by one they were falling, the kings, the great ones: Finwë slain by Melkor at Formenos, Fëanor by fire demons, Fingolfin in single combat with Morgoth...

''Fingon will not blame thee either.''

Maedhros eyes narrowed as if he sought to bring his cousin's face into focus across the wide leagues that separated them.

''Morgoth will destroy us all.'' He splashed wine into two cups. ''We must make a Union, a strong one, before he brings war to us again. We have Men under us, they are dour but doughty and fearless. Hithlum is still free...Nargothrond...oh, Celegorm, what didst thou do?''

''I know," Maglor said. "I know." He closed his eyes for a moment. "A union...The Union of Maedhros?'' A wan smile crept into his sad eyes. ''I am with thee, we know not what Morgoth plans or devises, but after the Bragollach we cannot be taken unawares again.''

Maedhros stared into the pale liquid. ''The Silmaril Thingol demanded as a bride-price for Lúthien was not his to ask for. It is ours, and it must be returned to us,'' his eyes rose. ''One way or another.''

Maglor nodded silently, feeling a weight begin to descend on his soul, push down on the hopefulness which had swelled there when he had realized that Morgoth was not omnipotent.

''I know.''

It was in this attempt to unite the Noldor and Edain that the curse upon the Noldor was seen clearly, and the deeds of Celegorm and Curufin in Nargothrond determined Orodreth, Finrod's brother, to give no aid to the Sons of Fëanor.  
In Doriath, where Maedhros words seemed proud and arrogant, Thingol sent back only scorn at his demand for the Silmaril which would reft him of his daughter and had been bought in blood. And the great power within them enamored his heart and each day he became more reluctant to see the jewel gone from his sight.

When the messengers came back with Thingol's contemptuous reply, Celegorm and Curufin vowed to destroy both the Iathrim King and his people. But Maedhros, now deeply engrossed in bringing his Union together returned no answer. There would be time. There were only two of that realm who begged leave to go to the great muster and battle, Beleg and Mablung, and this they were permitted, if they would march under the banner of Fingon.

The Naugrim were allies of the sons of Fëanor and the mines of Nogrod and Belegost in the Blue Mountains were a clangor of hammer on anvil in those years, and the people of Bor and Ulfang, the Men of the east, were marshaled.

As soon as riders could get through to the west, Maedhros sent to his cousin in Hithlum, and the Noldor there and the men of the House of Hador prepared for war. He sent no word to Gondolin, indeed he knew not where it lay, but the Eagles carried the tidings to Turgon, behind his mountain walls and he called a council with his Lords.

In the great fortress of Himring, forges worked night and day, and mail-shod feet rang lightly on the stone. Warriors and errand riders passed in and out of the great gates, Elves, Dwarves and Men. The great Hall became strewn with maps, and charts hung from the walls as each day princes and captains met and spoke and discussed. Maedhros and Maglor opened letters brought in from other kingdoms and received emissaries, and the lamps burned in their chambers all night.

~~~

''Go and rest.'' Maedhros straightened from leaning over the great marble table and looked at his brother.

''I am not weary.'' Maglor heated wine and poured it, stirring in honey. ''And thou wouldst do well to heed thine own advice.'' He handed his brother a goblet.

''How close is it to dawn?'' Maedhros caught back his heavy hair and sipped the hot drink.

''It is the mid-watch.''

''I will go,'' his brother stretched and smiled. ''Go on, I promise.''

Maglor raised a hand and silently left the room, closing the door behind him softly. The passage was dim, the lamps almost shuttered and the tall figure who walked without sound toward him brought him up short. He saw the droplets upon the robe, which told he had been out in the bitter flick of the thin snow, and then the light drew out his face from the shadow of the hood.  
He said, startled: "Fingon!"

Moving forward quickly, he embraced his cousin. The cheek was cold against his own.  
_ Ah, he is so like Fingolfin! _ And a sudden trick of light or shadow could strike him with a fierce blow of recognition and grief as it revealed the lineaments of his own father.

''We did not know thou wert coming here.''

''It was supposed to be secret,'' Fingon replied.  
''After all, I believe the Enemy has a great price on all our heads, does he not?'' The words were ll scorn.

Maglor nodded, considering him. Kingship and grief had changed him, perhaps he had realized all the potential of what he could be. The face was graver, power and strength were about him as naturally as his cloak.

''My brother will be more than glad to see thee.'' He reached forward to open the door.

''Is it true thou didst kill a Balrog?''

''No doubt that sounds a right heroic act." Maglor paused. "But I was fey with...all I could think of was seeing my father battling with those demons, how they enwrapped him in whips and rendered him unable to fight, and slew him in that manner - helpless!'' He drew in a breath, felt a hand on his shoulder. ''There were many archers there, driving back the orcs who followed it, and it took my sword. It might have been one of my warriors. What matters is that it was killed.'' Looking at Fingon he said: ''If thou dost ever meet one, keep from the range of their cursed whips, cousin.''

Somberly, the High King nodded. ''In wrath and rage, like my father and thine, yet still valiant, Macalaurë.''

The smile was all of loss and regret. ''Go in, Sire." The door swung open.

***

Maedhros leaned again over the great map. His silver hand came down with a metallic slap over the drawing of the Threefold peaks of Thangorodrim. His face, in the light, showed white and passionate with hatred against the power which dwelt below it.

A shadow fell over the map.

''Maglor, I have said I will come...'' He looked up and froze. The lamp caught the whiteness of his lover's face, wind-tossed hair spilling out from under a dark hood which shrouded him from cloak to heel.

And the fire in him became a thing of love, not of hate.

In one bound, Maedhros vaulted the table. Fingon stepped to meet him. For a moment their eyes met, and then in urgent, wordless hunger, their lips. The winter wind which spat grains of snow had turned the Kings hair into a jeweled black net, water clinging to it like gems. Sleek as ice, it slid through Maedhros' fingers.

''I wept for him,'' he whispered.

''I never saw him...those who saw him ride forth said he appeared as fell as Oromë in his wrath. I should have been with him!'' The anguish in the cry was bitter, yet his face was impassive as stone; a King's face, one that had learned to hide its emotions from those who needed his strength.

''He would not have allowed it. And I cannot lose thee, Fin,'' even as he said this, as he looked at his cousin, his beloved, it seemed to him as though the lamps ran red over his face. He glanced reflexively at them. They shone blue-white as Fingon's eyes.

''He was carried to...where my brother dwells, I never saw his body, but Thorondor came...''

Maedhros stared at him, felt a stir in his heart, a doubt, a presage of grief so great he felt as if he would surely gasp for air, unable to breathe through it. ''Come,'' he said, urgently.

~~~

The night was older, the dawn reluctant these short days. And sometimes between the dusk and dawn the time can last forever...

Hungry, they were, savage, not sparing one another anything as grief, rage and love melted into one, became something violent and yet beautiful. Love flowers inflicted by lips and teeth blossomed over their skin.

''Burn me!'' Fingon commanded. ''I need it!''

He had never required it before, never understood the catharsis of pain allied to rapture. It drew him into a vortex where one could not be distinguished from the other. He had never known the peace it could, for a while, bring to his soul.  
And, for a while, there was only the slowly receding glow of ecstasy, a still place, like the bottom of a deep pool. He felt sore, bruised, but tranquility eased into his soul. He turned, found the silver eyes hot with satiation on him, and for the first time since his father's death, Fingon smiled.

***

''Will Turgon come?'' Maedhros handed Fingon wine and seated himself cross-legged on the bed.

Fingon drank. ''Turgon is hidden. I have sent people to seek for my brother, None ever found him, and since the Bragollach I will not send forth again. That did not bring him. I wonder whether anything will.''

Maedhros was silent a moment, for he too wondered where Turgon had vanished to, and why the Battle of Sudden Flame had not seen him there. He was not a coward to hide while his kin fell.

''It is said Morgoth hunts always for Turgon, and questions every Elf, every Man he captures.'' Fingon's shoulders braced as if against a chill, and Maedhros closed his eyes hard for a moment. He knew how Morgoth questioned those brought before him.  
''We cannot make our plans to include Turgon. A part of me hopes he remains wherever it is.'' Fingon hesitated, set aside his wine. His voice dropped. "Húrin the Lord of Dor-lómin and his brother Huor vanished a full year, and returned clothed as Elven princes. I saw them. On the underside of the hem of their cloaks was wrought, very small, the badge of my brother." He traced the design on the coverlet. "Turgon knew that I might see it, most eyes but an Elf's would have missed it. But they will say naught of where they were that year, not even to me or their wives. Their lips are sealed by Oath."

Maedhros raised his eyes. ''Whatever thou may conjecture, say nothing,'' he warned. ''_I_ will draw Morgoth forth from Angband!''

''And I will then come forth from the passes of Hithlum.'' Fingon's eyes shone eerily. It took a heartbeat for Maedhros to recognize what he saw there: feral hate, burning away sorrow and pain.  
''And we will take him between two mailed fists and break him to pieces!''

''Yes !''

Fingon drew a thumb across the flushed lips. ''And then, my love, we will reclaim the Silmarils and thine Oath will be fulfilled.''

''There is one already retrieved.'' Maedhros face hardened. ''I sent to Thingol, demanding it to be returned to us.''

Fingon shook his head. ''I have heard he is proud, he would respond not well to threats.''

''The Oath binds me! Ainur or Elf, demon, or Man, any creature who takes and holds a Silmaril...thou wert there when we swore! And thou dost know what will come upon us!" Maedhros cursed. "I cannot recant, I swore _ twice!_"

''Doriath is guarded!'' Fingon reminded him. ''None may pass through the Girdle without the leave of the King or Queen!"

''Celegorm and Curufin have sworn to slay Thingol and his people.'' Maedhros pressed his fingers to his eyes. ''And I tell thee, Thingol's reply to my messengers was no less harsh than my own demand to him!''

''The Silmarilli are are things to potent for this world.''

''Nevertheless.'' The word was laid down flat between them. ''They must be reclaimed and only then will the doom be lifted.''

''First let us deal with Morgoth,'' Fingon said. ''Perhaps if he is bested then Thingol out of gratitude would give up the Silmaril, his people suffered long before we came from Aman.''

Maedhros arched a brow. ''A good effort, Fin', but thou has it aright. The Silmarilli touch every-one. They are indeed too potent for Arda, as my father was.'' His hand rose, touching the dark efflorescence on Fingon's body, given in love and in understanding. ''I wonder...what would I be, if I bore one...''

''The Silmarilli are not evil.'' Fingon moved forward, hissing a little in discomfort as he straddled Maedhros. ''Neither was thy father. And thou art not and never can be. _Naltanárya._''

And all he could see was the fire of Maedhros' hair in the lamplight...~

~~~

 

  


  
**   
Chapter End Notes:   
**   


  


Naltanárya - My Fire Radiance - Q

  



	18. And The Hells Were Opened

 

~ The vast hall was silent after Turgon's clear words faded, the echoes ringing in the stone. Sunlight leaped from gem and eyes, the embroidery of rich robes stirring to breath and heartbeat, the turn of a head. It drowned in a flood of molten gold as one of the Lords rose from his seat, illuminated his face like a lamp.  
  
''I hear thee, Sire, and speak for my House of the Golden Flower. I say, yea. Let us open the leaguer of Gondolin and march forth to fight with our kinsfolk.''  
  
There was a murmur about him, and then opposite another came to his feet. Ecthelion's eyes met Glorfindel's across the hall They shared brief, steely smiles.  
  
''And I speak for the House of the Fountain. Long have we remained hidden and grown strong. The Enemy knows not where we are - _as yet,_ but beyond Gondolin their is war and our people die! Let us march out!''  
  
''So say the folk of the Pillar and the Tower of Snow,'' Penlod agreed as one by one, the lords of Gondolin rose.  
  
''This is folly,'' came a dissenting voice. ''Morgoth is not blind. If we leave Gondolin, he will mark us, and how if he finds where we have come from and comes upon the city at our backs? Some must be left to guard the people.''  
  
''Thou art offering, Salgant?'' Glorfindel's voice was cool as melt-water.  
  
''It would be wise,'' Salgant said, flushing. He glanced toward Maeglin, who sat close to the king and who, had not yet raised his voice. ''We all know how eagerly both thou and thy...companion embrace arms, but it is not thy right to scorn those of us who prefer peace in this city we love.''  
  
''I am no warmonger, Salgant,'' Glorfindel snapped.  
  
''Yet thou wouldst march away and leave this city undefended: the women, children, our craftspeople – those who do not rely upon the sword or bow to show their apparent _ prowess._''  
  
''The only way to truly defend Gondolin is to defeat Morgoth.'' Ecthelion looked at him. "Sooner or later the Enemy will find us, or guess where we dwell."  
  
''Sooner, rather than later, if the Men we sheltered were ever to speak what they conjecture,'' Maeglin murmured.  
  
''And that is all the more reason not to go forth, for surely the Enemy's spies will know that we are not gone into the south,'' Salgant expostulated. ''The Edain vouchsafed that was the rumor. They should never have been allowed to leave!''  
  
''I trust them.'' Turgon cast an admonitory look across the chamber. ''And they knew not where they were brought.''  
  
''Only that it was in this region, Sire. But as for me,'' Aredhel's son said, ''I will ride with the Folk of the Mole.'' And he looked at Glorfindel and smiled like a thrown gauntlet.  
  
Turgon rose and lifted his staff, his eyes sweeping about the chamber.  
  
''My brother is High King. If he marches to war, I will fight beside him. It is done. We prepare for war.''  
  
Maeglin tarried, tilting a head to Salgant, watching as, sun-gold and obsidian, Glorfindel and Ecthelion strode out after the King.  
  
"We can always hope their eagerness rids us of them," Salgant said through his teeth.  
  
''Stranger things have come to pass,'' Maeglin said, then with a spice of malice. ''Perhaps thou shouldst ask to train with them, before the army marches.''  
  
''I know the sword, Prince Maeglin. I see no reason to flaunt my skills before all Gondolin.'' Salgant reddened.  
  
''I am sure. but I...I rather look forward to this.'' Maeglin struck him lightly on the back and walked away.  
  
***  
  
Ithil had grown round and thinned again, and for a brief afternoon, as the spring sunlight poured hot through the traceries of marble, Glorfindel and Ecthelion lay at ease on the great day bed, like cats basking in sunlight and one another.  
  
''Thou didst know this would come.''  
  
Ecthelion quirked a brow. ''And thou not? Since Fingolfin's death...''  
  
''Could Gondolin survive for Ages, a blindness in Morgoth's sight if we remained hidden?''  
  
''Nothing is hidden forever. Nothing may not be uncovered.''  
  
Glorfindel nodded. ''The words Ulmo spake to Turgon.. dost thou think of them? _Longest of all the realms of the Eldalië shall Gondolin stand against Melkor...*_''  
  
Ecthelion continued, remembering what Turgon had told them long ago: ''_Thus it may come to pass that the curse of the Noldor shall find thee too, ere the end, and treason awake within thy walls.* _ He said not that it _ would _ come to pass.''  
  
''Treason is a matter of choice.''  
  
''And whom would betray us?'' Ecthelion sat up. ''Thou dost not think, as Maeglin and Salgant that Húrin and Huor would..?''  
  
''The King loved them well and did not trust them without reason.'' Glorfindel's lashes shielded his eyes. ''One cannot guess what Ulmo's words mean, we may only prepare.''  
  
***  
  
** ~ Nirnaeth Arnoediad ~ **  
  
  
  
It was called, after, the Year of Lamentation.  
  
Maedhros, with the Dwarves and the Men in his service, marched north and raised his banners. Fingon's host was set in array about the Ered Wethrin, and he himself on the walls of mighty Barad Eithil. At times, the rising sun would spark from mail or shield, but the numbers were mostly hidden. The sky was without cloud. It seemed to promise hope, that dawn. Midsummer. The song of birds, and very high up the great Eagles circled.  
  
But smoke was rising from Thangorodrim, staining the purity of the sky. Morgoth was roused and had accepted the challenge.  
  
Finrod stared into the east, his eyes narrowed against the slanting rays of the sun, hoping that he could discern the dust flung up by the hosts of Maedhros, but nothing stirred on that ashen plain. A finger of darkness touched his heart.  
  
_ It is done._  
  
Húrin was close by with the men of Dor-lómin, their faces stern under their helms, the plumes of the Elf Lords stirred in a breath of sweet air from the south.  
  
It began far away, a murmur that seemed to whisper up on that breeze, and it became a flood of voices raised in joy and amazement. Trumpets rang out in the distance, echoing back from the Ered Wethrin and their clear power shocked through Fingon.  
  
_ Turgon! _  
  
On the battlements warriors stared south, catching afar off the glint of steel which grew to a mighty river, banners flying above it: Turgon's, Ecthelion's, Glorfindel's, Galdor's, Penlod's, Rog's, the insignia's of the great Lords who had vanished with his brother.  
  
Thousands. Thousands of them.  
  
A second sunrise broke over Fingon and he raised his sword and his voice high:  
''_The Day has come! Behold people of the Eldar and the fathers of Men! The day has come!_*''  
  
And back came the cry: ''_The Night is passing!*_''  
  
''Sire!'' one of the watchers shouted. ''Movement on the plain!''  
  
Fingon turned eagerly, but it was not the hosts of Maedhros that approached. Morgoth had clad those he sent out the same dun colour as the ashen ground and thus they had come close before they were seen.  
  
''Wait!'' Húrin cried. ''Never does the Foe reveal all he has! This is but a feint. Hold and let the carrion break themselves in assault against our hills and fortresses!''  
  
The high king set his teeth. The desire in him to ride out was hot, imperative, but there was wisdom in the Man's words.  
  
''Hold!'' he commanded.  
  
The sun climbed. Fume from Thangorodrim polluted the northern sky, spreading like a stain on the upper airs, and the Eldar and Men grew impatient. The taunts of the orcs had faltered into silence and it was then, in one of those moments that tips the balance for good or ill, the Captain who commanded these in the west brought forward something he was sure would lure out the silent, inimical watchers.  
  
Something – but he had once been some-one. Once he was Gelmir, a lord of Nargothrond, taken in the Dagor Bragollach. But perhaps he no longer knew that. He had been tormented and blinded, the eye sockets now puckered and black. He staggered as he was thrust forth by the heralds of Angband.  
  
It was sheer ill-chance that one of the appalled watchers was Gwindor, the brother of Gelmir and his warriors heard his stricken cry as the orc stretched out the Elf on the sands.  
  
''No! Gelmir!'' His cry echoed and tangled into gravelly laughter as they struck off the elegant hands. Gelmir did not scream, his mouth gaped and a hoarse sound was wrung from him. He had no tongue. Blood splashed scarlet as the feet were hacked from the body, some_thing_ now indeed he was, a thing which mewled and jerked on the ash, until an axe came down and clove his head from his body.  
  
It was the spark which begins the fire in bone dry grass, the first lightning strike which cracks the clouds. With a scream of wrath Gwindor galloped from his position, his people following him, and their charge struck the orcs like a master-wave. The response flamed through Fingon's hosts, blazing through each of them, and the high king slammed on his helm. Trumpet calls signaled the onset as the Noldor flung across Anfauglith, terrible in their fury, smashing through Morgoth's western army as if they were grass before scythes. To the eagles it it seemed as if a great crest of fire were racing across the barren waste.  
  
Gwindor's madness took him through the very gates of Angband, but Morgoth had many ways out from the Hells and sent forth legions through secret doors. The lord of Nargothrond was trapped and all his people slain save he alone. Fingon met the onslaught of the enemy and could not come to Gwindor's aid. He was pushed back across the plain, contending each league in a storm of dust and blood as his warriors slew and were slain. It was a desperate, terrible retreat and relentless, and perhaps then Fingon knew he would not leave this battle alive. There were always more orcs, always. They seemed to multiply with each one killed. And Fingon slaughtered until his gauntlet was soaked and his armor dulled beneath stains of pitch.  
  
And still there was neither sight nor sound of Maedhros. As Fingon commanded that his warriors hold together, that thought broke through the miasma of war like a dagger prising apart his mind.  
  
_ Where is Maedhros? _  
  
To the south, the sweeping clarion of horns pierced the clash and clangor. The dust swirled and parted and Fingon heard the slam as Turgon's host cut through, their warhorses ramping the ranks of the scattering foe, treading blood. To each side the force split, one lead by a warrior who's golden plume was stained with flecks of black and the other who shone silver. The banners of the House of the Golden Flower and the Fountain whipped past, and Fingon saw Glorfindel's mount rear, swerving on its hind legs. His sword flashed down before the ashen cinders blotted him from view.  
  
Turgon's stallion shouldered through to press close to Fingon's and his helmed head dipped, he reached out a hand and grasped his brother's arm.  
  
The high king's clasp was iron.  
''I thank thee.''  
  
''Thou art my King, and my brother. It is good to see thee again, although I would have chosen a better place and time.''  
  
Fingon's smile flashed white through grime as he gestured to where Húrin and Huor stood. Turgon beckoned them and they came forward, and the gladness of that reunion was a moment of warmth in the grimness of the battle.  
  
Anor gazed down in disconnected glory, aloof from the pain, the carnage, the blood as she pounded the sands dry of moisture. The up-flung ash bore a dark tinge.  
  
''Turgon.''  
  
The king of Gondolin turned his head to his brother.  
  
_ If I should fall, thou must take the Kingship upon thyself. My son is too young. _  
  
Their eyes met.  
  
_ Do not speak of it, lest thou dost tempt the wrath and mockery of Morgoth! We have lost our father. I have stood by his cairn. Not one day passes when I do not mourn him! Do not reft me of thyself. _  
  
_ Vow to me, brother! There is no time! _  
  
Turgon gave an imperceptible nod, but it was heavy and the tone of his mind was both gentle and fierce.  
  
_ Vow to _me_ thou wilt not seek death if aught has gone ill with Maedhros! _  
  
He received no reply, for at that moment on the hot wind which blew from the east, came the unmistakable trump of the Fëanorions, fierce and challenging.  
  
Fingon's eyes burned as he tried to penetrate the battle-smog. He urged his horse forward over scattered bodies and, as a breath of wind swept the dust aside, he saw the fireflower banners racing before the vanguard of Maedhros' host. Fingon felt, for a heartbeat, his soul and Maedhros' touch as the Fëanorions impacted upon the rear of Morgoth's forces in a roaring crash of sound.  
  
Fingon's warhorse answered his unspoken command, and he surged forward with his captains about him; the eldest son of Fingolfin and the eldest son of Fëanor, by main strength bridged the gap between them. Their hands reached out, their bodies leaned toward one another, the horses stamped a tight circle, formal as dancers, as their gauntleted hands gripped.  
  
''We were delayed, Fin'.''  
  
''I feared thee ambushed or dead!''  
  
''There were rumors of an assault from Angband.'' Maedhros' head turned back. ''A false one, I deem.''  
  
It lasted that long. A clasp, brief words, eyes that told all their lips did not, and then the horns blared warning, and over them reared a great bellow from the throat of something huge and fell.  
  
The Elven hosts turned to face the onslaught.  
  
Morgoth emptied the Hells of Iron and the foe poured across Anfauglith lead by Glaurung, the father of dragons, and others in his train. There came Balrogs and great trolls and wolves, and orcs without number and they drove into the armies of the Eldar like a great mace, cleaving them in twain, sweeping Fingon and the Fëanarion's apart.  
  
The cacophony was deafening, the warhorses, valiant creatures though they were, were not made to face such terror, and fought their riders as they tried to bolt from death.  
  
But it was not those from the Hells, for all their numbers, who defeated the Eldar and Edain that day; for even as the sons of Fëanor were driven back, Ulfang and his sons fell upon their rearguard.  
  
Their treachery was a blow both to their strength and the hearts. Maglor, in white fury, hewed his way through the confusion. He caught a flash of creamy hair, saw Celegorm fighting furiously in a thick clot of Men. With a plunge, his brother's horse leaped forward and he brought his blade down. Behind him a man rose up with a throwing-axe and hefted it to throw into Celegorm's exposed back.  
  
Time ran into the consistency of honey.  
  
''_Uldor, thou traitorous_ dog!''  
Maglor's cry was echoed by his stallion's scream as it hammered into the Men around Celegorm. Uldor span, weapon still poised, and to Maglor it felt as if his next move retained that same almost dilatory calmness as his sword entered the Man's throat above his gorget. Slowly it ripped up until the chin and jawbone obtruded into its path. Maglor slammed out with one foot, pushing back the body, drawing the weapon free. Uldor went down, hands at his neck, glazing eyes wild and terrified.  
  
"My thanks, brother!" Celegorm called.  
  
Horns rent the air. The affray was an entity of war brought into being by blood and battle and through it the trumpets demanded response. Maedhros was calling them together.  
  
They were assailed on three sides and the violence which which they cut themselves free was frenzied, vicious. Maedhros was frantic that his forces were were being driven from Fingon's. Maglor glimpsed Caranthir patched with blood. He wiped a hand across his eyes under the helm, smearing red. Blood continued to drip onto his lashes from a cut over his brows.  
  
''Fingon!'' The pain-filled groan came clear to Maglor's ears.  
  
''We cannot reach him,'' Curufin screamed. ''We must hold together!''  
  
''He is right,'' Caranthir shouted. ''We must save who we can of our people and allies!''  
  
Maglor nodded, seeing the desolation in Maedhros' eyes before the slaughter again broke on them like a tide of doom and there was no house-room in the mind for aught but battle.  
  
***  
  
He came from Angband. The mightiest of the Balrogs, a spirit of fire and of power, leading those he commanded like the point of a black spear flung from the mouth of Hell.  
  
Gothmog, he was named, and he was High Captain of Angband, and with him two others, Daachas and Coldagnir, door-wards of Morgoth's throne-hall.  
  
Fighting in madness the armies of Fingon and Turgon were split asunder, the Gondolindrim and Húrin's men forced towards the Fen of Serech.  
  
Glorfindel saw Ecthelion of to his right, staring at the approaching demon as his mount reared.  
  
_ Ecthelion! _  
  
There was no answer. Ecthelion's entire attention seemed nailed to the terror which swiftly descended upon them.  
  
''Ecthelion! Right flank!'' Glorfindel cried. ''I will take the left! The King! Ward our King!'' He raised his trumpet to his mouth to call his warriors, saw the flash and gleam as Ecthelion turned and threw up his hand in acknowledgment before wheeling and racing away with his house.  
  
Glorfindel looked last at Fingon and his array. A hot wind snapped out the blue and silver oriflamme, brave and brilliant against the encroaching dark fire. Under it, despite his begrimed armor, the high king seemed to blaze like a star. And, notwithstanding his people all about him, he seemed alone.  
  
Quite alone.  
  
Gothmog was challenging Fingon directly, Glorfindel knew, and everything in him yearned to hack his way toward that standard and join the high king. He felt the same urge in his warriors, in Ecthelion, in Turgon. And yet at the last, his fidelity was to his own king, who must be got clear of this destruction. Glorfindel wanted to weep.  
  
_ Fingon the Valiant. _  
He turned his head away and rode to guard the right flank. His eyes burned with the unshed salt of bitter tears and for a moment they reflected red, an afterglow of flame...  
  
***  
  
Fingon knew. His eyes stared unblinking as Gothmog approached, shrouded in flame. There was an appalling intelligence in the laval eyes which fixed on him.  
  
''Little king.'' His voice was the hissing thunder of a furnace. ''I will make a necklet of thy charred bones, _ Little King!_''  
  
Fingon's aura burned like star-fire as he stepped forward.  
  
He saw his captains die. Their names were forgotten by many but not by him who watched them stand before the Balrogs and go down in blood.  
  
Then the High King was alone before Gothmog. His sword met the great axe-haft again and again, each impact shuddering to his heels. And his radiance, in that last conflict, welled brighter and brighter as his hatred against the Dark became a holocaust of passion. Seething ichor bubbled from Gothmog's wounds. He mocked no longer, but Fingon too was wounded. He knew bones were broken, knew his strength was being leached from him by the brutal blows.  
  
_ If thou dost ever meet one, keep from the range of their cursed whips, cousin. _  
Maglor's sonorous voice tolled clear as a bell into his thoughts even as, from behind him he heard the whistle and felt the savage snap about his arms.  
  
It ground the mail into his flesh, burst blood from it. It _ scorched! _ The agony cleared his mind like a torch-flare.  
  
And Gothmog was before him. The heat singed Fingon's face as he lifted his head, eyes lambent in the blood-masked face.  
  
He thought of his father. He thought of Maedhros and all the years of love and glory which outweighed even this bitter, bitterest end. He thought of his son. A faint smile bent his mouth. It was tender.  
  
_ Forgive me. _  
  
''A Noldo will slay thee yet!'' The words were a ringing declamation. A prophecy. A promise. ''Thou bastard slave of Morgoth!''  
  
Sullen red glinted from the axe head.  
  
And then it came down.  
  
And Gothmog, in fury and malice stamped the body of Fingon and his silver-blue pennons into the morass of blood until there was nothing left of Fingon, son of Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor... ~  
  


~~~

 

 

** Chapter End Notes:  
**

  


* Words taken from the Silmarillion.


	19. Leaves Before The Wind

  
  
**Leaves Before The Wind**   


~ _The realm of Fingon was no more, and the sons of Fëanor wandered as leaves before the wind, their armies were scattered and their league broken...to Hithlum came back never one of Fingon's host, nor any of the men of Hador's House...~ The Silmarillion._

''_Fingon!_''

The cry pierced Maglor's heart, a serrated blade forged of the blood of his brother's soul. He pushed his tired mount through the remnant of their forces.

Maedhros had wheeled to face the west. The sun was descending. It was the close of the day, and the long twilight of the north imminent, a time that should have been filled with gentle birdsong, the drone of bees, the buzz of crickets in long grass, a warm golden sunset...

Maglor saw the brutality of loss slammed across Maedhros' face. For a moment his eyes were blank as glass and then the anguish broke in them.

He had seen that look before: in their father, after Finwë's death, in his brothers', after Fëanor's. His heart labored.

_ Fingon is dead. Fingon is dead._

He did not think to question it. He knew. And Maedhros knew.

''_**Fingon! **_''

The war-stallion seemed to jump forward as if Maedhros would ride back.

''Celegorm, Caranthir, to me! Take his reins!'' Maglor drove his mount in front of his brother's. ''No, Maedhros!''

A blow struck him across the face. His sight darkened for a moment, and he shook his head roughly. As his vision cleared, he saw his brothers madness crumble under the onslaught of grief.

''Fin...'' The whisper held an eternity of loss.

There was nothing to say, nothing that could be said. Maglor thought of Tirion, Maedhros' long self-denial blossoming into a love which not the Valar themselves could convince Maglor was wrong. He grieved - ah, Eru, he grieved, and he knew he had no time for it.

He would never see Maedhros smile again. There would only ever be this raw wound of agony. He laid a hand on his brother's arm and gripped it tightly as he urged the horses onward to the east.

The sun touched the far off peaks of the Ered Wethrin and night shadows raced across the burned plain. And with it came the wind. It crashed across the northern world in a torrent that dispersed the fume of Thangorodrim, snapped the torn and rent banners of the Fëanorions. It smelled of night, of distant sea-brine and sorrow as it passed over them, it chased towering thunderheads before it, and then came the rain.  
It pounded in violence upon Thangorodrim, but in a scorched, desolate place of death, it fell gently as a lover's tears upon broken silver armor, flesh and shattered bone which once had been Fingon the Valiant.

***

Maglor heated wine over the fire, poured it and then carried it across to the tent.

This was the first night they had made proper camp in their flight southward from the wreck of battle.

It had been exhausting. All were injured, and Maedhros stunned with grief. Maglor had to almost force him each ell of ground. On the third day, they had met with wary Laiquendi, Green Elves of Ossiriand, who, with their knowledge of herbs, had made an infusion to put into Maedhros wine which had sent him into restless sleep. Maglor did not ask why the Nandor aided them, perhaps there was no need. Ruin was writ on all their faces.

They went on the next day, scattered remnants of Elves and Men catching up with them at times, but the orcs were moving behind them now that the north was open, and they dared not linger.

The Nandor, almost invisible in the green of their forests, were silent killers. No enemy who entered their into the woods would find their way out, and this gave some respite to the weary, wounded sons of Fëanor. At last they crossed the river Thalos and hearing no pursuit thus far south, they made such camp as they could. The Nandor gave them warm gear, brought in game and wine.

Maedhros had not said one word in three days.

Maglor put his hand on his brother's shoulder. It was taut as iron, as if braced against the complete demolition of his inner self. He came to believe, in those days, that if the Oath had not bound Maedhros, he would have taken a dagger and ended his own life.

''Drink,'' he murmured.

Maedhros moved after a moment, lifted his head. He took the wine, choked on the first swallow as though his throat were swollen. Maglor, watching him, ached with his own fury, his own grief, his sense of betrayal. It burned in him like levin*, yet fear for his brother was keener.

A sound came from Maedhros then, stifled and terrible. The empty cup fell from his fingers. Maglor knelt and drew his brother's head upon his shoulder, smoothing his hair, locking his arms tightly.

The low keening was harrowing. It held all dolor, it was inconsolable, and Maglor closed his eyes against the tousled hair. His brother's hands clenched against him painfully tight as spasms of grief scourged him, sparing him nothing.

''Tell me it is not true,'' Maedhros whispered. ''I see him...I see his face...his eyes...I see his head cloven in twain, his body trodden into bloody mire, scarlet drenching his hair. Tell me it is not true!'' He thrust Maglor suddenly away from him as he rose. The fire flickered quietly, ruthlessly etching his face and burning in his hair, making him a statue of beautiful anguish.

Maglor said nothing. The eyes of the brothers had all turned to Maedhros. Somewhere a white-owl screamed like a damned soul.

''Thou hast seen it also?'' The words were so quiet, formed of emptiness.

Still Maglor did not speak. What could he say? As he rode, as he grieved, he too had seen merciless images of Fingon standing under a shadow of flame. A great axe came down, splitting through the silver-white helm, the skull, the immaculate structure of the features in a shock of brain matter and scarlet blood.

How could he allow himself to give those visions house-room? How could Maedhros live with that thought, that death?

_He was my cousin too, and I loved him. _

''We cannot know.'' Celegorm broke the silence, sounding unlike himself. ''We do not know anything!''

''_I_ know. And so dost thou.'' Maedhros turned away; the look in his eyes was blasted as he raised his eyes to the sky.

''_Fingon!_'' The cry was as desolate as the owl's, as damned and as lost.

_ There will never be an end to the sorrow,_ Maglor thought.

***

The day was calm. Through all the years after, that one thing remained clear in Gil-galad's mind. It was four days after the Solstice and the sea lay like beaten enamel.

As he walked the ways of Eglarest, the sun climbed higher and she seemed to wear blood as a coronal.

The day advanced. Belegaer stilled, becoming slick as spilled lamp-oil. Its sheen was lurid, unhealthy. To the north-east the blue of the sky faded into blackness which did not look like cloud but the early onset of night. It seemed to press on Gil-galad all that day, a nameless dread. He felt as if he were staving off something which would rip open his soul, let in a torrent of horror and pain.

''My lord?'' It was Baesel's voice, coming to him distantly. ''Cyser?''

''My thanks.'' He took the cup. His skin felt taut, stretched over the bones of his face, his cheeks burned, his mouth was arid. He raised the cool drink to his lips.

Pain shattered his skull.

He cried out through it. The goblet fell from his hands, and it fell endlessly, forever, until it struck the marble and splashed out, scarlet on white, red blood on a face pale as salt.

''_Father!_'' He was on his knees, voices were around him, people lifting him to his feet. There was no light, all was black. His head was splitting open.

''What is it?'' His mother's voice.

Voices. They faded in and out of hearing. Something hot and pungent was at his mouth and he gagged, then swallowed tasting salt mixed with sweetness, blood, he thought... blood. His face was wet.

''Ereinion!'' A slap brought his vision back. Rosriel's face swam into view as she leaned close to him.

''He is dead!''

''Who is dead?'' she demanded.

''_My father!_'' he screamed. ''Dost thou not know? Canst thou not _feel?_ My father is dead!''

He spun away from her, felt arms go around him. Borin said, ''No, my lord, it cannot be...''

''No-one has come,'' Baesel protested.

_ He is dead...he is dead..._ Grief engulfed Gil-galad like a tide. _ Father! Father! _

***

The laughter was brutal. It resounded through Angband and through the youth's mind. He felt tears streaming down his face as if a hole had been gouged in his heart.

_ The war._

He saw little, here. These chambers were visited by few save Sauron and the silent men who brought in food and water. But no-one in Angband could be oblivious of the great arming.

For the first days after they had come here, Vanimórë had scarce eaten or drunk. He was numb with the knowledge that Sauron was his father. It had smashed his dream of being born of the Elves into shards. No-one would rescue them. No-one even knew they existed. Mute with devastation, he had turned in on himself, until his sister's anxious touches drew him back.

''I never thought we were Elves,'' she whispered, as if relieving him of the responsibility of crushing her own hopes. He reached out and drawn her into his arms.

''I am so sorry!''

Their life here it seemed, was to be no different to Tol-in-Gaurhoth, save that in Angband everything terrible was magnified an hundred-fold. Always, echoing through the vast passages and rooms came an arrhythmic thudding as if giant hammers were being wielded. Bellows, screams, maniacal laughter and sobs found their way through air shafts and down tunnels until it felt as if tormented spirits thronged the shadows.

The child sought to see how far he might go, if there were a way of escape, for this place was a warren. It took some time before he found one: a slit in the rock at the end of a narrow passage. No-one larger than a child could have slipped through it. It lead to a shelf which looked down over a precipice, and he saw he was directly above the main gate. Wisps of acrid smoke teased at him, caught in his lungs, blown downwards from the vents of Thangorodrim. He looked up. The threefold peaks were wreathed in noxious smokes. There were no hand or footholds on the sheer buttress above him.

Defeated for the moment, he squeezed back through the opening. And walked straight into Sauron.

He froze. Hard hands caught him by the shoulders and he looked up by way of heavy robes into his father's eyes.

''Put it from thy mind, slave.''Sauron almost smiled. ''Thou art tethered to my soul. I know where thou art, where thy sister is. If thou dost wish to watch her die screaming, then by all means, attempt to leave here.''

Vanimórë swallowed dryly. He said nothing as he was released and pushed down the corridor. His heart beat swiftly but he did not run. A sudden piercing pain lanced behind his eyes and he staggered.

''Tethered to thy mind, my soul. Remember it. I do not have to touch thee to remind thee of thy place, slave.''

If it were he alone he would have risked punishment, but would not risk Vanya.

Time was difficult to tell here. Days and nights were the same. Vanimórë had a certain freedom, but the mazes and tunnels confused him at first, and he was afraid he would never be able to find his way back to his sister, so his initial forays were cautious. He did not wish to find the hellish throne hall again, guarded by those creatures of flame and shadow, did not wish to see the one who sat there in might and hate. The Power had assaulted his soul with its virulence.

Vanimórë did not know how long they had been here when it happened. He heard nothing, but he _felt_ something that day when Lúthien and Beren came to Angband and claimed a Silmaril from the Iron Crown. He felt as he had when uncovering the grimed beauty of Tol Sirion, when he had seen the blazing jewels in Melkor's crown, as if a door had opened in a black room, letting in Light.

And then had come the storm.

Melkor's rage was titanic. It shook through the Hells of Iron like an earthquake and Vanimórë shrank into the darkest corner of the chamber, clasping his sister, wondering if Angband were under attacks and hoping it were.

It was only much later that he learned the truth.

But this was not rage, he felt. It was triumph. It was delight, and he feared what it portended.

It was Sauron who told him of the battle which had smashed the Elves and Men, told him that they were scattered, destroyed, their High King dead. Melkor would bestride the world and no-one, now, could prevent him.

When Sauron had gone, the room seemed full of hissing shadows. Vanimórë felt as if the last light had vanished from the corner of his mind where he had tucked it away. Only empty blackness remained.

***

The great gate opened and the army returned. These were not the Elves who had ridden out in full panoply, this was an army returning from a defeat. Blood had blackened the gleaming silver of their armor, the tall plumes of their helms.

The folk of Gondolin came from their houses and watched in a silence that was broken by Turgon's voice calling for healers.

The rooms that had been used only to treat injuries got in training were now filled with warriors bearing wounds of battle. Turgon had left no-one behind. Houses flung open their doors. Idril ran from the palace, her ladies with her, and soon their bright gowns were filthy.

Fanari had seen her father, Glorfindel and Ecthelion sweep by. Through the relief, dread settled on her. Any-one who could heal or help the healers worked day and night. Some of the wounds were poisoned by serrated orc blade, limbs had to be amputated. Orcs wielding great axes had struck at riders, driving armor into flesh and muscle, shattering bone. The air reeked of blood and corruption – and agony.

Glorfindel watched one of his warriors go into a spasm and die even as he held him. The man's wife wept and he could give her no comfort. Curses piled in his throat and were barred behind his teeth, as he laid a hand on her shoulder.

How had this disaster struck them? He remembered, both with awe and with shame, Húrin and Huor and the Men of Dor-lómin declaring their intention to stand fast at the Fen of Serech and allow Turgon's people to escape.

It was certain death, the Gondolindrim knew. It was an act of peerless courage.

_''From you and from me a new star shall arise,** '' _Huor had said to Turgon before they parted and Glorfindel had heard those words and wondered on them.

He had looked back, seeing the Men making ready for their last stand and he marveled at the Secondborn, their lives so brief and so profligately spent! He and Ecthelion, on the left and right flanks, had wheeled back and saluted the Men before they turned south. He remembered the hiss of the reeds in the wind as the sun began to sink, a lorn, comfortless sound.

Guilt, shame, pride. Glorfindel knew he would ever live with them, that his inner eye would carry the images of that battle like a scorch-mark: Fingon standing alone as the shadow of the Balrog cast itself over him, the gallant Men of Dor-lómin positioning themselves with stoic resolve to meet an onslaught they knew would see them dead ere nightfall.

Yet now Gondolin was surely the only place left which Morgoth could not come; hidden from him as even Doriath was not, it was the hope of Elves and Men.

And that hope could not assuage Glorfindel's guilt. ~

~~~

 

  


  
** Chapter End Notes: **   


  


* levin is an antique word for lightning  
** From '' The Silmarillion ''

  



	20. Doom Wears Many Faces

**~ Doom Wears Many Faces ~ **

  


~ After the sorrow of Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Maeglin essayed a great work: The Seventh Gate. The Great Gate of Gondolin. The Gate of Steel.  
The immense construction guarded the entrance to the Orfalch Echor, and unlike the previous gates, which were arches set in a wall, this was more like to a trellis of steel between towers. Seven pillars of steel, each the height and breadth of tall trees rose up, tapering to deadly spikes, and above the center of the gate was set the helm of King Turgon.

To any approaching it would seem impenetrable, a wall set there to deny further passage. Yet if a hand struck upon it, there would sound a note like a harp, and guards would come forth. And when Ecthelion, Warden of the Gate, touched it, it would open.

And it was through this last gate that Ecthelion brought Tuor, son of Huor.

He was brought before Turgon, for he bore the gear which the king had set in the Halls of Vinyamar long ago at the command of Ulmo. There, in the wind-washed halls, Ulmo had spoken to Tuor, and there he had met Voronwë, one of the Elves whom Turgon had sent to find Valinor and beg for the help of the Valar. He alone had returned, a great storm casting him onto the shores of Nevrast. And he it was who lead Tuor to the Hidden City.

Glorfindel listened.

The Man was young, tall, golden haired, wayworn by an evil journey, and yet it seemed as though another voice spoke through his. It was the thunder of waves and the power of the hidden waters of the world, the voice of Ulmo, Lord of Waters, and he bade Turgon and all his people leave Gondolin and go down Sirion to the Havens.

It did not cross the mind of any there to look askance. Tuor bore the hauberk, helm and shield from Vinyamar. He was possessed by something greater than any Mortal or Elf, and the great hall was utterly silent.

_ Leave Gondolin?_ Glorfindel's eyes moved from the man's to Ecthelion's.

_Leave Gondolin?_ Ecthelion echoed. _ To reveal our King and our people to the malice of Morgoth? _

_ If Gondolin remains hidden it is ever a bone in the throat of Morgoth. Yet..._

Close to him Idril moved, as if she would speak. Tuor's eyes fell on her and he faltered and became still. Radiant in the light of the coloured glass windows, Turgon's daughter looked like a statue of gold animated to life.

_ Yet, how long can Gondolin remain hidden? _ Ecthelion's brows rose faintly. _ How long can we know that all our kin are scattered and dead and remain like a jewel locked in a fist, never to be seen? _

Glorfindel assented with a bare nod. Maeglin, close to the King, spoke then.  
''Thou knowest not the gravity of thy words.'' His voice was chill. ''This is our home, this is the last bastion of the Noldor in the north, the seat of the high king. Thou wouldst have us abandon it and expose him to the hordes of the Enemy, who has slain both Fingon and Fingolfin before him?''

Turgon's face was overlaid with shadow. As his brother had asked, he had taken the mantle of high kingship. He had heard from the Eagles that ere the winter of the Year Of Lamentation, Morgoth's forces had descended upon the Falas, whence Gil-galad had been sent. The Havens were destroyed with most of Círdan's people, but some had gone aboard ship and sailed south to the Mouths of Sirion and the great Isle of Balar where they made a refuge for any who would come hence. Turgon knew that Gil-galad still lived, far from the devastation of the north and was glad.

But now, few tidings came to Gondolin. The mountains concealed the city and none might enter. The way of the Dry River had been filled in, which had disturbed Voronwë as he lead Tuor hither. By edict of the king none might enter, however evil their plight. Only because Voronwë was of Gondolin was he permitted entrance. The Hidden City was now isolated.

''My sister-son speaks truly,'' Turgon said. ''I have a duty not only to my people here but to all the Noldor of Middle-earth. Gondolin is a _hope,_ son of Huor, while it exists. For the sake of _all_ who died in the Year of Lamentation and after, I hold my city against the malice of Morgoth Bauglir.'' He raised a hand. ''And look thou upon it, son of Huor, is't not glorious?''

Tuor, standing upon that floor of marble stamped with the images of the Houses of the Noldor, under the great window through which the light was changed to gemlike colors, before these people in whose eyes was a light like fire, bent his head.

''But for the love I bore thy sire and his brother and for all the Men of Dor-lómin, whose valor will be spoken of forever, I greet thee Tuor and welcome thee to Gondolin. The words thy spoke are made true, that the fate of my House and that of the House of Hador are intertwined.'' And Turgon stepped forward and embraced the young man.

 

 

***

 

 

''It is he.'' Idril's face bore a fine, high color on the cheeks.

''I saw the way thou didst look at him,'' Fanari murmured. It was late, the stars were veiled by high cloud, but in the chamber it was warm, the heavy drapes drawn across, braziers burning sweet smoke. ''Idril, my dear. He is mortal. His life will be so short...''

''Wouldst thou give up one day of love and never have known it?''

Fanari was silent for a long moment. ''No.'' The word was almost inaudible. She touched Idril's cheek gently. ''If this is indeed the one thou hast waited for then destiny brings him here. To us. To thee.''

 

 

***

 

 

The path was carved through rock which rose each side higher than the child could see, and the leaking fumes from Thangorodrim smothered the rays of the sun.

Still a child he was, although his growth these last years had been as a weed in rich soil. He looked as an Elf might some few years before his adulthood. His hair reached almost to his knees. He knew that the Elves wore their hair thus, and had always been surprised that it had not been sheared off. Later, he was to realize why.

Before him trod the booted feet of Sauron and Melkor, behind were great orcs.

No-one had said anything to him since Sauron had come to his chambers and jerked his head.

''Our Master has something to show thee.''

It had been the first time since entering Angband he had seen Melkor, and it had taken all the courage Vanimórë possessed to stand before him and not flee or grovel. Although he could not, at that time, truly comprehend, he felt as if he looked at something which had once been magnificent, had plummeted from a great height through fire to settle on Middle-earth, burned and scorched by the descent. He wore the Iron Crown, the two remaining Simarilli blazing with a light which was such a counterpoint to the darkness that the two could not coexist; they bent reality, opposites entire. Vanimórë felt the force of Melkor's mind reach into his. He flinched.

''He grows.''

''He and his twin, lord. Yes. Soon he will be ready.''

_ For what? _ Vanimórë wondered.

The vapor swirled aside. They were high up now, and in this place sat a man upon a chair. He was bound, hair and beard matted and filthy, hands clenched into fists, showing the long thumbnails ingrained with dirt. A stench came from him and the garments he wore had long rotted to rag.

And his eyes were windows into torment. Betrayal was there, madness, the images of a last battle standard falling under a sea of foes, the death of hope. Yet they were unnaturally bright and there was something in them which resonated with Vanimórë: Defiance. Even as Melkor grasped his tangled hair in one hand and jerked back his head, still it remained. The firm jaw was clenched shut.

''Speak and this will be over, _ Húrin._'' Voice of iron heated to melting, poured from a great crucible. The flesh over the Man's bones seemed to tighten against it. He made no reply.  
''Where does it lie?''

Vanimórë's throat closed.

''Thou doth see _all_ with mine eyes, and ere the end there will be _nothing_ Man. Thy name will be forgotten, thy House ended. And thou wilt die in anguish knowing that thine intransigence brought it upon them!'' And Melkor roared like a furnace door opening: ''_Where does Turgon dwell?_ He left thee and the Men of Dor-lómin to die for him at Serech! Thou owest him no loyalty! Tell me where he hides and thou wilt go free and I will lift the doom!''

At last the man spoke. His voice, after that brutal thunder, was a thin blade. It was steel.  
''The House of Hador do not recant their loyalties, master of slaves. What, canst thou not read my mind? Or has thy fall into thine own pit robbed thee of that power? So mighty thou say thou art and thou canst not read one small thing in the mind of a Man?'' It was mockery. It was, Vanimórë thought, courageous beyond belief.

''I will see thee die in uttermost despair,'' Melkor vowed, and backhanded the man across the face with a force Vanimórë felt to his bones.

''And I will be released from thee !'' Húrin spat blood into Melkor's face.

Vanimórë felt the uprush of rage. He waited in horror and a sudden surge of admiration.  
Melkor turned to him like a thundercloud.

''See what defiance had brought to this Man, this last relict of a people I have crushed into nothing. Learn well, Slave, that no-one, nothing may defy _ Me._''

Like a storm, Melkor swept away. The mountain muttered through its bones. Sauron laid a hand on his son's shoulder, turning him away.

''I hope thou hast learned.'' His voice was mild.

Húrin turned his head. Gray eyes met violet for the briefest moment.

_ I will not break for him, either, Man._

Vanimórë did not know what his promise would mean.

 

 

***

 

_ A Silmaril of Fëanor burns again in Doriath, _ ran the whispers on the wind. For Lúthien and Beren were dead, and the necklace she had worn, the Nauglamir, had been handed to Dior, her son, now King in Doriath.

No-one would have dared attack Lúthien while she lived. It had been a time of waiting, of immeasurable sorrow.

The Sons of Fëanor dwelt about Amon Ereb, which Caranthir and the twins had fortified after the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad.  
Maglor stayed as close to Maedhros as a shadow. The grief hammered his brothers heart into glass, both hard and fragile, limned his face to a carving of heartache. There was no balm to soothe it. Maglor ached for him. Sometimes it seemed as if Maedhros never rested, as if he sought to outrun the abyss within him, and at whiles an expression would cross his face as if he had only just recollected that Fingon was gone. Maglor's heart wept when he saw it.

''There is naught left now but the Oath,'' Maedhros said once.

Now, seated at his great table he looked straightly at Celegorm, who leaned his hands upon the surface as he spoke.

''Dior _wears a Silmaril,_ his pride grows each day. He _ flaunts _ it, brother. Our father's jewel!''  
At his brother's warning look he straightened, but did not move away.  
''I swore to bring down Doriath,'' Celegorm hissed. ''And those sprung from she who laughed and loved after...Finrod...! And hast thou forgotten our Oath?''

Maedhros came to his feet, feral and wild.  
''Ah, no brother, I _never_ forget our Oath! What else is left?'' His voice was taut as he glanced about the chamber. ''Gather our warriors,'' he said. ''We ride.''

It was deep winter. The great trees of Doriath were bare, pillars of beech which had carpeted the ground with unnumbered falls of bronze leaves. The horses' hooves brushed through them in a sound like surf as a storm wind came down from the north bringing snow, and the canopy of the forest foamed. The noise covered the approach of the Noldor, another storm on blood-red wings which broke on the gates of Menegroth.

_ Yet more blood. _

The horses hooves crashed on the steps of the gates, the fair face of one of the Iathrim door-wards vanished in scarlet. Somewhere a horn sounded from deeper within. The Fëanarions flung themselves from their mounts and strode into the Elves who ran to meet them.

The clash of weapon filled the air. Maglor was aware of beauty around him, of pillars carved like beech-boles arching up into branches where lanterns hung, of fountains and colored stone and woven hangings. And the fire and Oath drove the sons of Fëanor and their warriors deeper into Menegroth.

They burst through into the throne room. Maglor caught one glimpse of a tall man with silver hair, a beautiful woman with fear and hate in her face before all there was was blood.

He heard a cry and spun as behind him a warrior fell to the floor, eyes glazing in death. He saw, and each image was mercilessly stamped on his mind.

Curufin was down. As he watched the silver haired Elf whirled and struck Caranthir. Their blades shrieked together. Caranthir held, began to push back, and then a dagger sliced through the red air and buried itself under his arm. He swayed, fell to his knees.

_ No!_

Celegorm cried out something, exploding into violence in a flashing cut and parry of swords. Maglor lost sight of him as three Iathrim warriors ran forward to protect their king. A blade gleamed silver, slid into Celegorm's back.

Dior's took him in the throat.

Maglor must have shouted, in his mind or aloud, he did not know, but with his peripheral vision he saw Maedhros whirl.

Time slowed, each movement seemed made through deep water. Something flew at him like a silver whip, his sword slammed it aside and he met, for one moment, Dior's eyes, before his weapon and his brother's both pierced him.

The light in the eyes wavered and went out.

Sound returned. The King of Doriath lay at Maglor's feet, the woman beside him. Had he killed her? Had Maedhros? From further away came still the sounds of conflict, but the chamber was silent.

There was no sign of the Silmaril and for a moment Maglor could not think of it. Celegorm lay dying, Caranthir close to him and Curufin was already still. Maglor plunged to his knees and began to scream in the bottomless chasm of his soul.

 

 

***

 

 

"What didst thou do with them?'' Maedhros thundered across the dead and dying.

''Our Lord told us to take them into the forest! It was his last command!''

''Didst thou kill them?''

"We were commanded to leave them," spat Saewon. ''But I would have slain the mongrels, and gladly!''

''Thou didst leave two _children to die?_'' There was a whistle as Maedhros' sword sheared through the air and Saewon fell without a sound.

Maedhros flung around, a figure boltered in crimson, meeting Maglor's eyes which were stunned with grief and horror.

The bodies of their brothers were draped across horses. Maglor thought it was the first time he had seen true peace in their faces since the Oathtaking.

''Amrod. Amras, take them out of this.'' Maedhros' voice came hoarse. ''Maglor, come! Find the children!''

The trees swayed high above in the bitter gale, and dusk came upon them as they called and rode through night and grey dawn. There was no sign of any Elf or animal, and the only sound was the thunder of the wind that dried the tears on their cheeks.

Doriath had fallen forever, never to rise again, and their assault had been in vain; the Silmaril could not be found.

At length they rode from the ruin. The Halls of Menegroth lay empty but for the dead.

The Oath still drove them, although now they were weary unto death of it. There was no joy in any of them, no access to laughter. Maglor's music carried a yearning sorrow for peace, the twins shared grief like a loving-cup of wine, and Maedhros had lost his heart. All his will was now bound to that of the Silmarils.~

 

 

~~~


	21. Great Is The Fall

** Great Is The Fall... **

~ The sun shone through wide windows, drenching the room with gold. _Tarnin Austa,_ the Gates of Summer would be heralded with joy.  
Outside a bird sang and somewhere a harp was being played but in the long chamber where Idril and her ladies gathered only one now sat, head bent over a great tapestry.

It was five ells in length, four in breadth, its colours poppy-red and deep blue with silver and gold embroidery. Fiery flowers with long, tapering petals dotted the back-cloth, and set among them were harps with white gems upon the strings. The flowers represented the House of Fëanor and the harps were Maglor's instrument. She had copied the design from the brooch-pin he had gifted her as a child. The gems on the strings, which she had sewn on with clear crystals, were the Silmarilli. Those had been her own addition to the pattern.

She often thought of Maglor. She would never meet him again unless it were in the future, if Morgoth was defeated and the Oath fulfilled, and even if she did, he was not for her nor ever would be. Yet still she thought of him, and would feel as if something weighed upon her heart, a pressure which would bring her hand to her breast. She felt immeasurable sorrow, and did not know why.

In the years since the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Eagles had brought only tidings of death.

Nargothrond was fallen, sacked by Glaurung the dragon, Lúthien and Beren had died, and the Silmaril passed to Dior Eluchil, her son, now King in Doriath. When Lúthien lived no-one dared to touch her, but when the jewel shone in Menegroth, the Oath stirred once again in the sons of Fëanor, and they attacked the kingdom. Dior and his wife Nimloth had been slain, so had Caranthir, Celegorm and Curufin, but the Silmaril had not been retrieved. It had passed out of knowledge.

Fanari rose, carefully spreading out the tapestry on the marble floor. As she stepped back, she felt some-one behind her, some-one who had entered the chamber so silently that she had not heard them. Startled, she turned. The king or his lords might enter the room, but from simple courtesy they would knock, for these chambers were Idril's.

But it was not the King, it was Maeglin.

''Excuse me,'' she said. ''I did not hear thee.''

''No matter.'' He carried a beautifully carven wooden box in his hand. ''Will Idril be back soon?''

''She is with Tuor, my Lord. They prepare for Tarnin Austa.''

''Ah yes.'' His smile was ice. ''It was that which brought me - it will be an... unforgettable day. I will leave this for her to wear.''

He opened the box. A beautifully faceted gemstone lay on white silk, purple with glints of color to it that changed with each shift of light, and it was set in a mesh of white gold, delicate as a cobweb. It caught the sunlight, flaring over Fanari's eyes. A lovely piece. She knew Idril would not wear it.

Her eyes rose to Maeglin's. He was beautiful, and she could pity him, but she was Idril's friend, whose wariness of her cousin had not diminished, but rather grown with her marriage.  
Idril had married Tuor some years before, and the young Mortal had become a powerful figure in his own right in Gondolin. Turgon looked on him as a son, Glorfindel and Ecthelion befriended him. Tall, strong, skilled in arms and clever in council, he loved the Elves and was loved in return, save by Maeglin and his cronies.

''I will tell her, when she returns,'' she said civilly.

His eyes narrowed. He shut the box with a snap.

"I wonder if thou wilt."

''I will.''

''Thou knowest that she will reject it, as she has ever rejected aught I made for her.''

What was there to say? Fanari wondered.

The sun was westering, it poured through the long windows running like liquid over the great tapestry. She might have said something to him, but he would not have heard her. For too long had she put herself between Idril and Maeglin.

Something crossed his face then which might have been grief or an odd glee. It disturbed Fanari, it was such an strange commingling of expressions, and she opened her mouth, but one of his hands moved in a gesture for her to be silent. He stepped around her and his eyes moved to the spread of cloth.

''Beautiful,'' he said and turned away to pour himself wine. ''And interesting. The colours of the cursed House of Fëanor and...the Silmarilli? An offering to the Kinslayers? To one of them..?'' He stood at the opposite end of the tapestry, and across the length of it his eyes met hers as he sipped from the goblet. ''To Maglor Fëanorion? The harp? Is he not spoken of as a singer and harpist?'' he tilted his head. ''Interesting.'' He laughed shortly and came to Fanari's side.

''Thou doth remain unwed. And now I see why. Thou hath strange ambitions, Lady.''

''I have no ambitions, my Lord,'' she refuted calmly.

She was not quick enough to stop him. He tipped the goblet and a flood of ruby wine poured onto the great banner, soaking crimson across the harps and flowers and gleaming crystals.

''Ensure thou doth tell Idril I was here. And tell her also, that if she is wise she will wear my gift for the festival.'' The chalice fell from his hands in a gesture of contempt and the hem of his cloak soaked up wine as he swept away.

Fanari clapped a hand over her mouth, forcing back the anger, the tears which blurred the cloth into a great stain of fire or blood.

***

There was music that night. The air throbbed with the notes of harp and lyre and flute, but there were no voices, for no-one would speak until the Gates of Summer broke the dawn, when the Gondolindrim would turn and face the east and Anor's rising.

There seemed naught amiss, Glorfindel would remember in after times, but under the surface, fears and doubts had seethed for many years.  
He had become first aware of it on a day years previously. Coming from meeting with Turgon, he had met Idril, her young son Eärendil and Fanari in the gardens. Around them birds sang and fountains played. The sky was a deep cobalt, and timeless peace lay over the city.

The child scampered across, and leaped into Glorfindel's arms, who laughed and swung him onto his shoulders. Eärendil was beautiful, there were few who were not charmed by his ebullience. Ecthelion played his flute for him and made little willow whistles, even Salgant could be seen at times telling the child stories. Only Maeglin and his friends took little note of this very special offspring of Tuor and Idril.

As he approached the women, he heard Fanari say: ''Thou must speak with him.'' And he saw that both their faces were grave.

He had sat down, while Fanari whirled about to try and catch the boy who ducked behind her skirts, laughing when she seemed unable to catch him.

Idril was disturbed, Glorfindel learned. Since Tuor had come here her life had been both blessed and joyful and yet plagued by premonitions and fears.

''Gondolin is unassailable, it is said.''

''Yes, Lady,'' he agreed.

''Our home, held in the hands of the mountains, guarded by they and by the eagles, inviolate, the last place of safety...'' her eyes rose to his. ''I see it as a trap, Glorfindel.''

''A trap,'' he repeated. "Go on."

''Thou who art a warrior, tell me it is not.''

Instead he said, ''Tell me what troubles thee.''

She clasped her hands, looked down at them. ''I feel as if a great shadow is looming in the north and none can see it but I. I dream that I am standing on the King's Tower and crying to people, but all they do is look at me and smile, to them it is invisible, even as it crashes down upon them.''

Glorfindel's brows drew together. ''Thou hath foresight Idril.''

''Yes.''

''What is thy will, Lady? What is thy wish?''

She leaned closer to him. ''I have spoken to Tuor of making a way of escape from Gondolin. Not to the Dry River; that is too obvious. It will lead north, toward Cristhorn. Toward the enemy. That may seem foolish?''

''No, Idril, not foolish, it is not a way any would expect.'' He took one of her hands between both of his. ''I pray thou art wrong, I pray thy dream is wrought of sorrow for the fall of so many since the Year Of Lamentation. Yet if this is some warning from beyond which touches thee, then tell none.''

''I have not, save some of our most loyal folk.''

''All thy folk and Tuor's are loyal, I deem. And I trust my own people. I will send thee some who may aid thee. It must be a secret work, for the king would be wroth with thee that thou dost trust not in the might and strength of Gondolin.''

"I trust in the valor of the people, Glorfindel and the strength of the city and yet is it not true that the Enemy has minions unnumbered?" her gaze was unblinking, wide. "Is it not true that well-nigh all our glory went down in Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad?"

He nodded, the beauty of his face limned by sadness under the sun.

''Yes, lady. That is true.''

~~~

And so for years folk loyal to Tuor and Idril, and some of Glorfindel and Ecthelion's own people aided with making a way of escape under the plain, toward the north. None of them spoke of it, even to one another.

***

There was something about that night. It became too still, too silent, black silence under the music. The nightingales which always sang in the trees made no sound.  
Ecthelion turned his head to Glorfindel's, a smile of invitation on his mouth, his brow rising in unspoken invitation.

And his eyes caught a glow of red.

Glorfindel flung around.

The northern sky was ablaze with fire.

The music sailed. In the distance came cries, people were running, the pounding of hooves echoed up the streets as riders from the plain came in. And the shouts went up:  
''The Enemy is come!''

Horn calls climbed into the air, warriors ran to don armor, commands cracked back and forth.  
Glorfindel and Ecthelion ran side by side.

Rivers of fire raced across Tumladen as the king commanded the Great Houses into their positions, the maidens and children taken away from the walls, deep into the city. Then they watched as Morgoth's hosts flooded across the plain, and lapped at the slopes of Amon Gwareth. Arrows showered down upon them and many fell, but it was no orc who commanded this assault, it was Gothmog, High Captain of Angband.

For Glorfindel, the battle for Gondolin became image after image of blood, screams, the death of warriors, the fall of walls and towers. And the fire of Balrogs. The defenders fought with a valor which swelled his heart even as his voice whip-snapped commands through the smoke and chaos. He saw deeds which would live in his mind forever, and through it all, the very veins of his heart pulsed with the foreboding of defeat.

It spurred him to greater rage. He knew he was wounded, that his own folk were dying around him. Stones crumbled and scattered like coals. Somewhere a horn cried out.

''To the Square of the King!'' he cried.

Orc faces rose and fell in the blood-mist, and he slew even as he backed.

The King's Square became a battleground. As they cleared the enemy from it blood spread crimson across the white stone. He saw Tuor and many of the other Lords, he saw the king.

He saw, lying by the Kings fountain, a figure whose gleaming armor was dulled with blood.

His heart exploded within him.

_ Ecthelion! _

He knelt at his lover's side, seeing the pallor of his face.

''His arm is broken.'' Tuor's voice was hoarse with shouting and inhaled smoke.

"Then the other will serve me."

The words brought their heads down to Ecthelion's. Crystal eyes blazed in a white face.

''Ecthelion...''

''I shall do with one arm, Golden One.'' Their gazes held. ''_ I shall do._''

''I know,'' Glorfindel said. ''I know thou shalt.''

There was a noise as if an avalanche approached, and the warriors came together in smooth motions as the enemy swept down from three sides.

There was no time to think, time only to kill. Even as Glorfindel slew, each stroke of his sword taking another life, he dared not give room in his mind for thought.

Tuor cried his name and he whirled.

''Glorfindel.'' Tuor looked weary beyond belief. "Go to Idril and those she has gathered. Please. I have killed Maeglin." He swept on as Glorfindel stared at him. "I found him trying to murder our son, Idril was fighting him. I threw him to his death. It is he who had bought this on us! She feared him with good reason."

As he spoke he and Glorfindel stood back to back, the words interspersed with the strikes of Sarambar and Dwamborleg, Tuor's great axe. ''He said Morgoth had promised him kingship of Gondolin! And I know not how many support him, are loyal to him.''

''I cannot leave the battle!'' Glorfindel cried, and thought.  
_ Maeglin - Holy Eru. He struck a bargain with Morgoth? How could he? _  
And he knew Maeglin's motivations well enough.

"I will follow thee," Tuor shouted. "I will persuade the king to come. We must leave this square before all die. Go before us to my house! If thou didst ever love us, please!"

''I love thee Tuor! But not unless the king commands me will I leave!''  
And he plunged under the down-stroke of a great orc-chieftain and Sarambar entered its throat. The battle swept he and Tuor apart.

And he saw Gothmog come, flanked by another. The demon's presence seemed to put greater savagery and heart into the foe and each time Glorfindel slew, more pressed forward.

He saw it all. Saw Tuor facing the Balrog and then Ecthelion...  
He was pale as frost. One arm hung useless at his side, yet he leaped forward and struck. Glorfindel fought without thinking as he watched. He heard, even through the chaos, the mental curse as the demon wounded Ecthelion's good arm.

He bore witness.

Ecthelion dropped his sword. He gleamed under the fire-cloud of the demon as Fingon had, and then he jumped as if he would embrace it – and as he leaped, he lowered his head so that the spike of his helm drove into Gothmog's chest. He wound his long legs about it and the pain from the burning blasted into Glorfindel's mind.

_ No!_

Gothmog screamed. He staggered back, overbalanced and plunged into the deep fountain of the King. There was a hiss, a broil of steam as the demon's fire and Ecthelion's pain were both quenched.

There was a silence within Glorfindel that lasted as long as it took his heart to beat again. It was a hammer blow that dealt grief.

And then he went mad. He did not know that he killed, that Turgon commanded them to leave, that the warriors of the King's House refused. He thought he heard a voice crying: ''_Great is the fall!_ ''

''Glorfindel!'' Tuor was weeping unashamedly.

He took took the rear-guard. He wished to die then, hoped he would, but nothing could come near him as they approached Gar Ainion, the Place of the Gods and the pursuit drew back. Tuor called out as he saw Idril standing there, bearing a small sword and yet she looked past him. They turned.

A drake had wrapped itself about the base of the Kings Tower on whose summit stood Turgon. He was alone. As they watched there came a rumble like the fall of a mountain, a stab of flame and the explosion of dust.

''Thou may not go back,'' Glorfindel heard his own voice hard and clear, blend with Idril's: ''My lord!'' as she flung her arms about Tuor. He turned to see Fanari, her face smudged with soot.

''Where is Eärendil?''

''I ordered some of my people to take him.'' Idril said, shakenly. ''Hendor and others of my house-carles.''

''Come,'' Tuor said. ''Let us make our way and pray to the Valar they are ahead of us!''

_Pray to the Valar, _ Glorfindel thought through his high, wild madness. _Maeglin, is this what ambition and thwarted lust brings? Rot in the Void!_

The secret way debouched into what had once been a deep pool, now dry and overhung with trees and shrubs which concealed them as they climbed out. Most were wounded and all were weary, but they pressed on until ahead of them they saw a group of the Gondolindrim and among them was Eärendil. But wolf-riders were streaming across the plain toward them.

Glorfindel and Tuor's crisp orders snapped out, and the warriors tore into the beasts and their riders with the fury of those who have lost so much they will not loose more, Tuor battling for his son and Glorfindel through white rage and grief. Only two of the wolf-riders fled alive, and Eärendil greeted his parents with joy, which soon turned to tears as he asked after the names of those gone forever.

The plain was filled with the mist and smoke from the burning city, mercifully veiling the refugees, and at last the company halted near a brook among hazel thickets and rested. Eärendil played in the clear water and his voice reached to where Glorfindel stood with his warriors.

''Mother, I would Ecthelion were here to play his flute for me, and make willow whistles.''

There was a silence and Glorfindel's shoulders tightened as Idril quietly replied: ''Child, good Ecthelion is fallen fighting the greatest of the Balrogs. Both perished and lie in the Fountain of The King.''

_ I dare not think. I dare not falter here. If I fall from this path before me I will fall forever and when I fall it must mean something for our people! _

It was not strange that he hardly recollected anything of that flight which brought them to Cristhorn, save one thing: as the path turned, a light went up like blue fire as the last tower of Gondolin crashed down...

The survivors were strung out now, for the path was narrow. Glorfindel and the most battle-worthy of the warriors were at the rearguard, but it was here that orcs had gathered to make ambush, and both the front and rear were assailed and at the rear there came a Balrog.

As soon as Glorfindel saw it he _knew._

The great Eagles swept down then, wings like a storm-wind, causing the creatures to leap into the chasm or scatter. Glorfindel heeded them not, for they came late. Ever had they brought news to Turgon, and nothing that moved escaped their gaze – _nothing save the vast army of Angband._  
There was no time to think on that puzzle. Everything in him was bent upon the Balrog who would, if he were not bested, run amok through the wounded refugees.

He raised his blood-webbed sword to the sky.  
''For the House of the Golden Flower!'' His voice echoed in the crags like a clarion call to battle. "For Gondolin!"

The orcs jeers slithered like a fall of stones into the crevasse.

''_Meet me, Slave of Morgoth!_''

The Balrog leaped to a boulder above him, its whip whirled and cracked out, whistling over Glorfindel's head as he ducked. He sprang after it. It was immense, as tall again as he. A dry roar like that from within a kiln emanated from it. It was ember and black, and he was gold, despite the blood which overlaid the damascened armor.

Sarambar met the Balrog's sword in a screech of metal on metal, and Glorfindel brought up his leg and slammed out. His own mind was filled with a fire as great as that of the demon.

_ One of thee slew Fëanor. _

He disengaged, whirled aside,and brought Sarambar down in a shattering overhand blow to the iron helm.

_ Gothmog slew Fingon._

_Took Ecthelion to death._

_And thou wouldst kill my people._

_I. Think._ Not!

With a bellow of wrath the creature jumped back and Glorfindel followed, driving it from place to place on his own tempest of fire.

_ I must be close...That damned whip! _

He leaped forward, a figure of power and beauty in blooded armor, his aura glowing brighter and brighter as his soul accepted his own death. His sword flashed down on the demon's arm, and a gout of ichor fountained. It bellowed in agony, forearm and whip tumbling into the chasm. Spinning aside, Glorfindel felt the remaining clawed, burning hand grasp his braided hair.

_Closer yet...the burning...oh, Eru...the pain! _  
And his dirk, drawn in his left hand, drove into the Balrog's chest. It screamed, and the fire was on him, within him, melting his eyes. For the last moments of his life, Glorfindel was blind...

He did not feel the sensation of the long fall. He was burning, burning. Before the pain drove him mad, he remembered to grip the hilt of the dagger. Even as his flesh bubbled, melted under the gauntlet, the blade stayed deep within the demons body.

_ Come with me._

_Follow me. _

A voice out of the past. A voice gone into the Void.

Then the Lord of the Golden Flower and the Balrog, close as lovers, struck the bottom of the chasm together.

***

For a long moment there was utter silence. Even the grey vapor rising over the burning city seemed to hang motionless in the air.

Tuor's voice, choked by grief, over-rode the sound of heartbroken sobbing, childrens wails.  
''Come, now!''

Fanari had jammed her knuckles into her mouth, biting so hard she tasted blood. Close by, Idril had turned her son against her, her own face blank with shock. Fanari felt her chest and throat shuddering with sobs. This was like the final blow to one already mortally wounded, her head rang with the images. Her parent's dead. Turgon dead. Ecthelion dead. Glorfindel...dead.

_ No,no,no._

They flinched as a shadow passed over the moon, and as they looked up great pinions were silhouetted against the sky. The Eagle dived down into the cleft, and then exploded back up, circled and came down, releasing something gently from one of it's talons.

Glorfindel's body.

Tuor stepped forward. Fanari dropped to her knees as the strength went out of her. Idril bit back a sob, Eärendil whimpered, and burst into tears.

His armor was blackened, his fabled hair scorched away, but the helm had protected his head and when Tuor removed it, thick golden curls clustered about his face like a coronal. But his face...Sobs rose from those who could see. Some cursed and turned away. There was no face, the Balrog's fire had destroyed it. Only the scorched armor and hair marked him as Glorfindel, beautiful and beloved. His hands were burned; the left one showed the white of bone.

"The Eagles have driven away the foe." Tuor's voice broke. "Let us raise a cairn here to Glorfindel the Beloved."

Fanari's hands shook as she lifted loose rocks in that high place, as once she had done for Fingolfin. There was nothing within her, and tears mercifully blurred her last vision of the ruined glory which had once been Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower.

It was said after, that Thorondor permitted nothing to defile Glorfindel's grave, that earth settled on his cairn and flowers took root, golden flowers like tiny suns which bloomed until the changing of the world.

In the city, smoldering marble crashed down over the emblem of the Rayed Sun in the great hallway of Glorfindel's house and, still clasped by the death embrace of Gothmog, the body of Ecthelion hung in the defiled waters of the King's fountain. His eyes, like his lover's, had remained open in their last act of of valor and defiance. ~

  
~~~


	22. A Storm Of Shadows

**A Storm Of Shadows**

~ ''Thou art _Golodh,_'' Valóron had said to him, from the beginning, trying to unravel the mystery which cloaked this strange young Elf. ''Doth thou remember nothing at all?"

Vanimórë had lied, and said: ''I remember naught.''

''What is thy first memory?''

''A room. And _him._''

''No-one would leave two children behind, even if battle came upon them,'' Valóron had protested.

No-one had, of course.

''Hast _thou_ children?'' Vanimórë asked.

''I have a wife and daughter.'' The bright grey eyes looked away.

There were so many questions the youth longed to ask, yet he dared not risk revealing his parentage. Valóron was the first Elf he had spoken to, the first person to ever offer him friendship. Vanimórë could imagine the horror and hate that would leap into his eyes, the withdrawal of that friendship. And he could not bear the thought of the rejection.

''Thine eyes...''

''What of them?''

''I have never seen such a color before. I might think thee some strange demon wearing the form of an Elf.'' Valóron smiled a little. ''A sorry jest in this place, forgive me.''

''I am no demon.'' Vanimórë refuted.

''Of course not, thou art _ Golodh_. And I fear what the enemy plans for thee. He wishes thee to be a warrior and I think that thou may end by fighting thine own people. I fear for _thee,_ Ringel.''

The name Valóron had given him brought warmth to Vanimórë's heart. _ Ringel _ Cold Star. He would keep it to himself, he thought, and look at it at times, like a very precious gift. Which it was. Names meant something to the Elves. Sauron's calling him _Vanimórë_ was a contemptuous insult against them.

When he could, Vanimórë brought wine from his chambers to share with Valóron. Vanya obtained it. He knew that she abased herself before Sauron, before even the orc-guards, when he was not there to stop her. _Yrch,_ Valóron called them. Vanimórë was learning Sindarin and some Quenya. They were beautiful languages, and he lovingly savored the sounds of them on his tongue, repeating them to his sister.

She had wept at first, seeing him return to their rooms bruised and bleeding, though he was more exhilarated than harmed. He had a _friend._ His strong young muscles became disciplined, his reactions swiftly attuning themselves to the thrust and parry of armed combat. Valóron also taught him to fight without any weapon at all, his body became the weapon, and when he saw the look of pride in the Elf's eyes, Vanimórë determined to become the best. He accepted injuries philosophically, without the hate that the blows of Sauron instilled. Each day he was eager to learn more, his blood running hot and fast through his veins.

''Do not beg for wine for me,'' he told Vanya. ''If I want it, I will ask.''

''Thou wilt not,'' she responded. ''Thou art too proud. And is this not something thou may share with thy friend?''

He drew her close.  
_ But I do not wish them to notice thee._ he thought to himself. _Thou art grown far too beautiful._

***

There were times in life that were written by fate. They defined his life. They built the edifice which became Vanimórë Gorthaurion, Slave of Sauron. Dark Prince.  
The first was the death of Valóron by rape. It was a shabby, dreadful end for one so fair and courageous. Valóron died in agony in the thrall vaults of the Hells, a bright soul who had loved and lived and defied the Dark, and taught Vanimórë so much.

The second proceeded close on the heels of the first.

He killed his sister.

Whatever power ran in the twins blood brought them to maturity more swiftly than Elves, or perhaps it was some dark sorcery. Vanimórë did not know or care overmuch. He was eager to grow, to become a warrior. He had no power to match the Dark in any other way; he could not protect his sister but by his proficiency in arms. At the beginning that was the only thought in his mind, that if he were of enough use to Morgoth and Sauron he would have some kind of bargaining power at his disposal.

A child's dream.

It ended on the day he saw his sister arrayed in finery from plundered Nargothrond, some few things the army had salvaged before the dragon drove them out. She looked as an Elf-maid must, he thought, tall and lovely. Far too lovely.

He knew why she had been summoned before Morgoth.

Until that moment he did not know if he had any true courage, if he could do this thing, which would etch itself on his soul forever. Vanya was the only person who had loved him. She was the softness he needed against the hard-edged brutality of his life.

_ He will violate her, damage her and her soul will be destroyed._

But what if it was not? What if even death were denied her? Since he had been set to fight the dreadful things in the pits, Balrogs, werewolves, Great Orcs, he had noted that he healed quickly. But he certainly felt pain, as would Vanya if Morgoth forced himself into her slender, unwilling body. She would be torn and would bleed, scream for the help that he could not give her, that no-one here would give her...

He teetered on the brink of the impossible for long heartbeats. A chasm yawned each side of his soul, and he edged along the narrow path with careful footsteps, refusing to look down as he asked her:  
''Dost trust me, Vanya?''

Of course she trusted him. They had only one another.

Long after, he knew that he could not have acted had he considered too deeply. Horror would have paralyzed him. He had to do this _quickly._  
And he did.  
He cupped her face in his hands, kissed her brow – and snapped her neck.

She felt no pain, and he embraced her as she fell.

And there was scarce time to grieve. The magnitude of loss would have undone him had he allowed it to, but even as he wept and repeated, _ I had to! I had to! _ his father entered the room.

And by the time Vanimórë returned to his chamber, collapsing within in the door, his body screaming with agony, her corpse was gone.

And grief had to be sublimated by defiance, the will not to break. He could not afford regret.

He healed. He always healed. Time slammed back and forth between his training in the pits and the times he was summoned to Morgoth...

The manacles on his wrists clinked. Blood had run from his wrists, striping the flesh of his arms. He lay on his stomach, pain flared through him with each movement, but under the tousled coils of hair the violet eyes were savage with hate.

Above him stood Morgoth, eyes of ice, of black fire, burning yet so cold. They sucked will and light and courage into them, stripped bare the young soul before him.

He was everything, in this place he was all there was, all there could ever be.

On his brow the two remaining Silmarilli blazed in denial of the dark, and now Vanimórë knew what they were, their history, who had fashioned them; the dreadful doom which lay on the Noldor.

_There is more than Morgoth. More than the Dark._

Raising his head a little he gazed at them. The shadows seemed living pitch in their presence. He wondered if they would burn him if he touched them as they had burned Morgoth.

_Of course they would, thou art Nothing. _

He dropped his face again, closed his eyes. He could feel the native power in his own body gradually lessening the pain, the bruised, torn muscles, knew that he had only to wait. Morgoth would release him when he wished to, he could only use this time to heal and stoke the internal fires of futile rage.

He turned his head away, so weary that had he been alone he would have slept. Here, he dared not.

_ I will not break for thee, _ he vowed.

A burning hand caught his hair, dragged his neck back so that he thought it would snap. He tasted blood as he bit down on his lip to stop the cry breaking from his throat.

_ Dost thou defy me, still Slave? _ The voice was thunder in his mind, crushing hate and power. _ Thou shalt fear, Slave. For I am **all !** _

He swallowed blood from his torn lips. Tears of pain broke silently from his eyes, sweat was pushed through the pores of his skin, and still he fought against screaming until unconsciousness claimed him. Only then did Morgoth find release in the unwilling, torn body with a groan, and only then did his Slave find surcease from agony.

~~~

There was more than the Dark, but after Morgoth's victorious battle, Vanimórë lived without hope.

He was sent from Angband not long after, to the tribes of Men who served Morgoth, and strangely, it was there that he saw there could indeed be more. The Eastern Men were a tough, sometimes brutal people, yet among them he saw love and kindness like bright flowers growing among barren stone. He was Melkor's servant, to be obeyed, to train their young men in battle, and they feared and hated him as they did his Master. But in time they came also to respect him.

The Men's encampments were grim enough, but to one who had always known imprisonment, this time was one of freedom. Vanimórë took his first lovers there, for he was determined that his desires would not wither under the onslaught of rape. There were always camp-women ready to oblige him, and he wanted to learn how to please a lover, not simply to find his own release.

  
***

  
He was High King.

There had been something akin to triumph in his mother's eyes when she had imparted the news of Gondolin's fall. He had hoped to see grief, to share his own, and in some way find a crumb of comfort, but her coldness repelled him. He had come to Nan Tathren, the green Land of Willows, where the survivors of Gondolin had at last rested after heartbroken wandering. It was there that Gil-galad was formally acclaimed high king of the Noldor on Middle-earth.

He had been loathe to send out messengers while the Enemy roamed, but when he learned that Maedhros and Maglor were at Amon Ereb, he sent trusted messengers with letters to the brothers, begging them to meet with him. He longed to see Maedhros, knowing that there was one person who grieved for Fingon as he did, but when a sealed letter was returned to him it bore Maglor's insignia.

_ To Gil-galad, son of Fingon,_

_I greet thee with love and pray that thou wilt remember us as once we were, when thou wert young._

_We have not turned our faces from thee. It is grief which maintains this distance._

_Maedhros has naught left but the oath, and we three that remain of his brothers. He has not forgotten thee. He loves thee as a son, but thou art so like Fingon. To look on thee would tear his heart again and mayhap break his mind. He holds himself as one who has taken a wound which will open without warning._

_If we do not fulfill the Oath, there is only the Everlasting Dark, and no hope that we will ever be reunited with those we love. I hope that one day, when the Silmarilli are reclaimed, that we may embrace thee again, Gil. But it may not be yet._

_We have no blessings to bestow on thee. We are cursed. I know that truly now. Caranthir dead, Celegorm, Curufin, and all who we touched will feel that curse also._

_We killed our own kin again in Doriath. And for what? We did not find the Silmaril. We are damned, there is blood on our very souls, the blood of innocents. We would not stain thee with such a curse, or ask thee to forgive such a sin. It cannot be forgiven._

_From my heart, and I know from my brothers, encased in stone though it is, I send thee love._

_By my hand on this day the ninth of Echuir,_

_Maglor Fëanorion. _

That name was indeed uttered as a curse now, so far had the House of Fëanor fallen. Yet Gil-galad held the memories of his youth close to his heart, the love he had felt and shared, and he could not hate them.

He was High King, and even then he could look back, as if down a hallway peopled with mighty figures who had gone down into death: his father, valiant Fingon, gallant Fingolfin, the fell and brilliant Fëanor, Finwë in Aman. And Gil-galad knew that he too was part of the pattern of the Noldorin Kings. He too, would die violently.

He did not wish to know how his father had been slain, it was more than enough to know he was dead. He felt unutterably alone. Save for faithful Baesel and Borin there were none with whom he could speak.

But Rosriel rode high in those years. Wife of one King, mother of another, yet her happiness seemed to devolve only from her hatred of Fingon and the sons of Fëanor. By now Gil-galad guessed at the nature of the relationship between his father and Maedhros, yet he would have liked to have it confirmed.

Those who had fled Gondolin's fall met with the refugees of Doriath who had come down Sirion. In Arvernien, they became melded into one people and as Eärendil grew tall and beautiful he was their lord, and he took to wife Elwing, daughter of Dior.  
Elwing had carried the Silmaril with her in her flight and it seemed for many years as if the haven at the Mouths of Sirion was forgotten both by Morgoth and by the Sons of Fëanor who remained.

  
***

  
Each year at of Tarnin Austa, the people of Gondolin gathered to remember its fall and spoke the names of the beloved dead.

Returning that summer morning, the grief in Fanari's heart was assuaged a little by hearing the laughter of two children. The _ Peredhil_ Elrond and Elros. Behind Eärendil's villa where the land sloped up, she could see them running, hear their clear laughter.  
A smile lightened her face as she entered her own house, but that faded soon enough. A servant of Elwing's waited there, asking her to come at once.

In Gondolin the years had seemed to pass as if they were jewels set in amber, each one bright and beautiful and timeless, but here things changed more swiftly. Tuor and Idril had departed to seek for Aman. Tuor was Mortal, but favored by Ulmo and their people devoutly hoped that they had reached the Blessed Realm. And could not know.

The sea-call was likewise strong in their son's heart. Eärendil had made many voyages from the mouths of Sirion and seen strange, faraway shores. Elwing missed him, and sat looking over the sea, leaving her children to the care of servants. Fanari, following the messenger, wondered what she wanted. She waved at the twins as they called her name, and did not hurry. It was a calm day, she remembered later, a day of gentle sea-breezes, of clouds like lambs-wool against the sky, of bees droning in the heather and sea-pink. A calm day, as the eve of Tarnin Austa had been calm before the fires and the blood and the fall...

Elwing had become friends with Fanari soon after she was betrothed to Eärendil. Fanari had never seen Lúthien, but Dior's daughter must certainly have inherited her fore-mother's beauty. Her skin was almost silver-white under hair back as polished jet and eyes of a luminous grey.

This day, those eyes held an expression Fanari had never seen before. Elwing held a crumpled scroll of vellum in her hand, and stood straight as a spear before two strange Elves. They were tall and wore long cloaks over mail but it was not until Fanari saw the badges they wore that she realized who they were. Her heart jolted. That fiery insignia was infamous.

Elwing's people stood close to her as she flung her answer in their faces.  
''I will give _nothing _ to the cursed slayers of mine own kin, the red-handed get of fell Fëanor! Thou hast come _ demanding_ of me something that my grandmother and grandsire obtained in blood and death and pain while my lord is asea? Take this back to Maedhros Fëanorion: I will _ never _ give the Silmaril into his hands! I spit on his oath!''

_ The Silmaril? _ Fanari thought, alarmed by the passion in Elwing's voice. It was no secret that the jewel was held here, indeed people believed the Havens of Sirion flourished by its presence. Children were born, crops grew, the seas were alive with fish, the weather was balmy, as if the Silmarils light spread to touch all things which lived and grew.

Yet the Silmaril carried fates written in blood older than the Sun and Moon.

''Thou wilt regret this answer, Lady,'' one of the messengers said, hard-voiced. ''This was an offer of _ friendship_ asking only that thou wouldst give up the Silmaril to those whom are it's rightful owners.''

''My father Dior was slain by Fëanorions! My brothers vanished! My grandsire _ died _ after bringing the Silmaril from Angband! Lúthien gave up her own life in grief. The jewel was not stolen from thy Lords by any save the Enemy, and they have no right to it now. My reply stands. Now get thee gone!''

''We will deliver thy message.'' And with swirls of their long cloaks the messengers departed.

''They have no right,'' Elwing almost spat.

''It has brought us peace and prosperity,'' some-one said. ''Thy decision was right, my Lady.''

''I wish my lord were here,'' Elwing gazed out of the long windows which faced the sea. ''Think thou I should have given it up?'' She turned suddenly to Fanari and who's brows crooked at the question. Elwing knew that her friend had met some of the sons of Fëanor. Her conversations which touched on them were absent of the bitterness and hate that tinged many peoples words.

''They swore an oath,'' Fanari said simply. ''It binds them until their lives end.'' _ And if they do not fulfill it they are doomed._ Her throat constricted with fear, a nameless dread what this refusal would bring. And it was not fear for Elwing, but for the remaining sons of Fëanor.

  
***

  
The Doom had affected even his sleep. There were no dreams of pleasant days gone by, not any longer. Now he dreaded the times he rested, for invariably the dream was the same.

He would be walking across a barren landscape and in the distance loomed a black tower whose topmost courses were wreathed in noxious mists. It was not Angband, it was no place he had ever seen.

In all that desolation nothing stirred save a thin breeze which sifted ash about his boots. His soul rebelled at walking toward this terrible place wherein he knew dwelt some dread power, and yet he could not halt his forward momentum.

There was a dark shape ahead of him, and as he approached he saw that it was a tall figure. A hood covered his head and the long cloak fell to his heels. It was motionless, holding a power which Maglor both feared and yearned toward.

The figure turned. A sweep of wind cast back the hood and belled out a mane of dark hair, the ends seemed to fray into fiery darkness.

Maglor began to run as eyes like nothing on Arda save the Silmarilli themselves stared into his own. Strong arms embraced him and he heard himself crying:  
_ Adar! I thought thee dead! _

_ I can never be gone from thee, my dear. Thou art my son._

For a moment those perilous and beautiful eyes watched him, and for the space of a heartbeat they glinted lucent purple. A thought crossed Maglor's mind that this was not his father...  
But it was; there was none like him, there never would be any like him. The scent of sandalwood drifted through the dead air, opulent, sensual.

Fëanor drew back, elegant hands cupped Maglor's face and slipped into his hair. And Maglor son plunged into the kiss like a man who throws himself from a cliff to drown in the raging waters below. His hands tightened on the hard back and then melted into it as if it were stale bread, the lips under his became febrile, crumbling. He cried out as his father fell to dust and ash and he was left holding nothing...

_   
**Father!**   
_

''Maglor.''

He sat up, his cry still ringing in the room, the taste of the kiss lingering on his mouth. He blinked at Maedhros whose face was harrowed and white.

''I dreamed...Forgive me, what is it?''

''I am not sorry for waking thee from something that grieved thee.'' Maedhros drew back his hand, tears gleamed on the metal fingers, and Maglor felt the wetness on his cheeks, remembered the firestorm of emotion which still echoed in him, felt the aching loss.

''I need thee to support me, Maglor. I am weary unto death of this oath and have held my hand thus far. But we will _never_ see those we love again unless we effectuate it. We will be _ nothing_ but souls lost in the Dark for all eternity.''

Maglor nodded. ''I am with thee,'' he murmured. "Always."

''Gather our people. We ride to the Havens of Sirion. My offer of friendship is spurned.'' Maedhros' eyes were shadowy silver.  
''May the One forgive us.'' ~

~~~


	23. Begotten In Blood

_“I will speak of that time,  
Of the choices we made,  
Roads to blood and ruin,  
Innocent dead on our souls,  
White swords in fuming scarlet,  
The fire in us turned black,  
At Alqualondë it darkened,  
Once we were glorious,  
Though none will remember it,  
Our names are limned by sorrow,  
Carved of hatred and grief,  
Only the Jewels held their glamor,  
In those red years,  
When anguish lay behind us,  
And Darkness before us,  
We were the Oath incarnate,  
The Doom opened its arms,  
We wore it like cerements,  
Close as our shadows,  
Now it stood before us,  
And we embraced it,  
Wedded to it long ago,  
The most faithful of lovers...”   
  
Maglor Fëanorion  
From the Noldolantë ~ The Fall of the Noldor _  
  
  
  
Elwing stared south.  
The window-drapes rippled in the stiff offshore breeze. In the walled garden Elrond and Elros were playing a game which involved much laughter. Winter had passed, spring was come to the Havens of Sirion, and still Elwing's sea-roving husband had not returned.  
  
The twin's voices changed to calls of greeting, and Elwing lifted her hand to Fanari and her maid Bainaew, who was carrying a basket. Fanari often baked sweet cakes for the twins, and as she lifted the cloth and handed them out Elwing smiled a little, envisaging their little faces sticky with honey and fragments of oats and pounded hazelnuts.  
  
''Fanari, come, have some wine,'' she called. ''And thou Bainaew.''   
  
It was something in Fanari's stance that alerted Elwing. She had stiffened, head tilted. Elwing walked quickly down the steps into the garth.  
  
''What is it?''   
  
And then she heard it too. At first she thought it was thunder, although the day was too clear. She turned as if she would look through the walls of her villa and beyond it.  
  
Gulls were crying from far away, flocks beating inland from the ocean. She saw Fanari's face turn toward her, white as linen.  
  
It was no flock of gulls. The sounds were screams.  
  
Both of them knew on the instant. There was no warning, there had been no messengers riding south with reports of the Enemy moving.  
This was not an attack by Morgoth.   
  
An expression of wild resolution hardened Elwing's face. ''Wait here !'' She vanished into the house in a sweep of silk.  
Fanari looked down at the children. The honey-cakes were still held in their hands. Then one fell to the grass. Elrond said in a small voice. ''People are crying, Fanari.''  
  
She laid a hand on each of their shoulders, swallowed through a dry throat.  
  
_ This is not Gondolin...they are not orcs or Balrogs...they are the Fëanorean, and they slew children in Doriath..._  
  
''Both of thee must be very brave now.'' She forced calmness into her voice.   
  
''Is it...the Enemy?'' Elros' voice quavered and he set his jaw against it.  
  
''It is not Morgoth.'' She knelt before them. ''But we will have to run and get to a ship. Stay close to thy mother.''  
  
Elwing flew from the villa, her pale garments swirling behind her. On her breast she bore a necklace of marvelous design, and it was set one jewel that stole the breath of all who beheld it. Despite the sounds of conflict which came ever closer, Fanari could not but stare at the Silmaril. Like a great diamond it was, but with a light within it that no earth-mined gem would ever hold. She felt the power of it. Elwing's eyes reflected its brilliance like nacre.  
  
Later Fanari was to wonder if the Silmaril had indeed burned its way into Elwing's soul; why else would she have valued it above her childrens lives?  
  
They ran toward a gate in the garden wall and slipped out. Here the cliffs were high, dropping in sheer walls of stone to foaming surf below. Northward the pillared houses marched upward. South the cliffs lowered to the harbor.  
  
Smoke was rising from the lower city. Fanari saw a sudden bloom of fire wreath the masts of a tall ship. She thought, strangely, _ They burned the ships at Losgar._  
  
There were guards around them, some of their own people were running toward them up the paved road from the harbor.  
  
"The Fëanorions are putting the ships to the torch," some-one shouted. "We cannot make the harbor !"   
  
A detachment of horses galloped up the slope of the hill. The sun winked from burnished armor, and the pennoncelles which flew above the warriors were like sweeps of blood. Elwing span and began to run north, her white raiment streamed like gulls' wings. Two of the guards picked up Elrond and Elros and followed her, yet she raced before them and did not look back.  
  
The thunder of hooves behind them grew louder. There came a hiss and whine, the thud of arrows penetrating flesh. Fanari's own winced as she anticipated one of those steel-tipped shafts striking through her back.  
  
Elwing jerked suddenly to a halt. Above her, other riders thundered into view and drew rein. The wind streamed copper and black hair from under gleaming helms, and at their back more warriors grouped, swords unsheathed and bows strung.  
  
''Surrender the Silmaril, Elwing!'' The voice was cold, imperious.  
  
One of the twins whimpered himself into silence.  
  
''Elwing...'' The word broke raggedly from Fanari's mouth.  
  
Elwing ignored her. Her eyes were shining wildly as she stepped away from the group, raising her hands as if offering herself as a target.  
  
''Wilt thou kill me then, Maedhros Fëanorion, as thou didst kill my brothers, my father, my mother?''   
  
''Give us the Silmaril and thou wilt go free, and thy children also.''  
  
Fanari's gaze flashed from Elwing to Maglor. Under the plumed helm she could see little of his face save the gleam of his eyes, the set of his firm mouth, white skin flecked with scarlet. Her heart rose into her throat, as Elwing stepped back again and again.  
  
''I will never trust a _Kinslayer !_'' she spat and her eyes moved to her sons. Fanari felt them lunge and caught their tunics, dragging them back. They cried out, struggling against her grasp.  
''Nana!'' Elrond sobbed. ''Nana!''  
  
The Silmaril was raging. Elwing's white robes caught the air like wings, the wind shredded her dark hair and suddenly she smiled – and let herself fall.  
  
''_No!_'' Fanari screamed.  
  
And then a shape exploded from below the cliffs, climbing into the sky; it shone like a star, cried out in a gull's voice as it sped on the wings of the wind into the west.  
  
The stillness broke in a roar of surf. Glittering silver eyes swung back to the children.  
  
Fanari pushed them behind her. ''Run !''  
  
''No !'' Elros was weeping. ''Nana!'' She felt the convulsive sobs even as they clung to her skirts. Behind her the clash of weapons sounded, curses, death-cries. Her attention was fixed on Maglor, whose head snapped around at something his brother said. She opened her mouth to plead with him, with Maedhros. The Silmaril was gone, the children were blameless...  
  
She heard a scream. Bainaew sprawled face down on the green turf, a wound spreading red gloss over her back.  
  
_ No!_ Fanari spread her arms in a futile warding gesture, backing away. A Fëanorian warrior reached for Elrond. She beat out with both hands against his armored chest, and her head exploded with pain as he struck her. Armed men on both sides were closing in. She lashed out, struggling as the children were carried away; their terrified protests brought hysteria crashing up into her own cries.  
Her cloak ripped; something scratched her hand as she tried to cling to it – the pin of the brooch Maglor had given her as a child. She closed her fingers tight over it as if it were a talisman against violence.  
  
And suddenly, Maglor stood before her. For one moment she thought he recognized her from Vinyamar and then realized brutally that he was hardly seeing her at all. She was simply some-one in the direct path of his despair. Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears as she stared at him, and then she struck the ground. Armor crushed her body, drove the breath from her. She smelled blood, the smoke that clung to his hair.  
  
Her thoughts were oddly clear. She watched from a distance thinking, _I wanted him for years, but not like this! Maglor, thou shouldst not have come to this! _  
  
She heard the woman whom was herself scream. Searing pain burned through her loins, casting her back into her abused body. For a long time there was nothing but the thud of pain like a fist in her belly, the rawness of the impalement moving faster and harder. Tears scalded from under her closed eyelids.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Their hearts were leaden in that fire-arrow attack on the Havens. They came as if riding to meet a doom too long delayed, and they were destruction and death as they struck Sirion. The Silmaril had been within their grasp. Maglor knew that he or Maedhros could have commanded an archer to shoot Elwing. They had not.   
  
And the Silmaril and Elwing were taken away from them.  
  
The light of the Jewel almost blinded him, and he knew then, deep within, that they could never fulfill the Oath.  
  
A great wave broke against the cliffs. The white bird had vanished, flying into the west.  
There was a silence, but for the creak of harness, the jingle of the horses bits.  
Maedhros said something under his breath, brief and violent, and turned toward the two young boys, giving orders.  
Maglor turned aside, to say something to his own men and saw almost with surprise, that the woman whom had been with Elrond and Elros still lived.  
  
The warrior held her tightly for she had fought furiously to protect the twins. Her hair had come loose, her gown was torn and marked by blood.  
  
All Maglor's shock, his certainty that he was doomed, that the Oath would never be fulfilled, that darkness would take his soul – had already taken it – and his grief at Amrod and Amras' death struck him like the raging surf below the cliffs.  
  
He gestured with one mailed hand for the woman to be released.   
  
The twin boys struggled and Maedhros thundered, ''Cease! Be silent!'' And such was the power in his voice, that they reflexively stilled. Tears still streaked down their faces.  
"Bind their wrists," Maedhros ordered.   
  
He felt nothing except anguish and fury. Elwing had escaped with the Silmaril. Amrod and Amras were dead.  
  
Two of them now. Only two...  
  
''Please !'' one of the twins begged, his face smudged and bruised. Maedhros turned his horse, his eyes leaving them.  
  
''Please !''  
  
''I said, be silent or I will gag thee!''   
  
The woman stumbled as she was freed. Maglor caught her and bore her down onto the blooded grass.   
  
She was easy to take. She had no strength to match him, and his inner agony needed to see her pain, to hear her sobs. She cried out as he forced himself into her, and he lost himself in the savage rhythm, exploded violent release. For a moment, still sheathed within her, he did not move, then he shuddered and withdrew. Tears ran silently from under the woman's lashes. The enormity of his offense against her shocked through him as he rose. She lay like a smashed flower crushed by a heavy foot.  
  
The sated glow of pleasure drained away. He felt numb.  
  
''Come,'' Maedhros snapped.  
  
As he mounted his horse, Maglor felt childrens eyes on him. He could not meet them. Madness and rage had withdrawn like an outgoing tide, giving way into a weary, aching anguish.  
  
''Do not hurt them !'' The woman raised herself. ''Please !'' Her eyes were scarred with pain, yet held something Maglor recognized as understanding. It was as as if she knew exactly why he had raped her. It lasted a heartbeat, and he felt that she took all his own pain into herself, as she had taken him into her unwilling body.  
  
_I am already damned,_ he thought, bereft to the core of his soul. He met her eyes, turned away to rejoin his warriors. No-one spoke, not even Maedhros, whose face was a mask of ice. It had been thus ever since Fingon's death, nothing seemed to warm it. Nothing ever could.  
  
They wheeled their mounts and turned from the wrecked havens, and galloped north.  
  
The sour-sweet scent of crushed grass rose about Fanari as she curled up on herself and wept.  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Gil-galad leaped from the ship even as it scudded against the dockside, his knight-companion's behind him. The spring sky was stained with smoke, drifts of dirty wool against blue. It was that which had alerted he and Círdan on Balar, sending them to their arms and the ships.  
  
He smelled blood, heard the laments of women, the cries of children, saw bodies being moved for burial. His hand clenched on his sword-hilt. Some of the bodies wore the badges of the House of Fëanor. A warrior wove through the people and came to him, a long cut had laid open his cheek.  
  
''Sire.'' He bowed. ''I fear thou doth come too late. They are gone.''  
  
''What happened?'' Gil-galad asked bleakly.  
  
''We had no warning, save the messengers from Maedhros last summer. They attacked and spared none in their path. Our Lord is not here.''  
  
''The Lady Elwing and her sons?''  
  
The man's face was tight with anger.  
''The children are taken. By bloody Maedhros Fëanorion and his brother Maglor. They were seen riding away.''  
  
''Alive?''  
  
''They were alive when they were last seen, my lord,'' the warrior qualified warily.  
  
''And Elwing?''   
  
''We are unsure. She was not with the children, and we have not found her body.''  
  
Gil-galad looked over the burning harbor, his eyes opaque, sealing in all expression.   
_ Maedhros, how came it to this? Another kinslaying? By the Hells, this Oath will eat thee up._  
  
''My lord?'' Baesel asked. ''Do we pursue them?''  
  
After a moment, Gil-galad shook his head. ''We might risk the lives of the children, if they live, and we have much to do here. We must take the survivors to Balar. And we must search for Elwing. Any-one who lives must be found and tended.''  
  
  
  
The air was still sour with the smoke of dead fires that night. On the ships from Balar lanterns glowed. The wind had shifted and mooring chains puled with the outgoing tide, while the clang of bells sounded mournfully further out in the channel. Gil-galad and Círdan had already sent ships back with wounded and homeless, and hasty tents had been erected for those who could not yet be moved. The high king stayed ashore, going from place to place, attempting to comfort where none was possible.  
  
He accepted hot wine from Borin and drank it, turning his head as Círdan spoke his name.  
  
''There is one here who saw what happened to Elwing,'' the Shipwright murmured. "She was wearing the Nauglamir. She threw herself from the cliffs there." He gestured away into the darkness.  
  
''Hells...!''  
  
''No, that is not the end. They thought she would surely die, but a white bird rose from where she had fallen - or the Silmaril itself, but a bird flew into the west carrying a great light.'' In the light of a nearby lantern Círdan's face was grave. ''Power has acted here, Sire.''  
  
''So the Silmaril is beyond their reach.'' Gil-galad felt sorrow descend on him like the last of the bitter smoke.  
_ Then they are doomed._  
It was too painful, too final, to think on.  
  
There were only two of the brothers. He knew now that Amrod and Amras had died here. His thoughts reached out over the leagues which lay between himself and those he had once loved.  
_ That I still love despite this, even though I hate this atrocity._  
  
''She said the children were unhurt.''  
  
''Whom is she?''  
  
''Her name is Fanari Penlodiel,'' Círdan said. ''She is of Gondolin.''  
  
''I know the name of Penlod.'' Gil-galad murmured.  
  
''She was violated.''  
  
''_ What?_'' The exclamation cut the night like a whip. ''By whom?''  
  
''She will not say.''   
  
''She will die. _Raped?_'' _ How could an Elf perpetrate such a vile act? _  
  
''I believed she was dying, but the women who watch her say she spoke of a child, that she will live to bear a child.''  
  
The bell tolled far out at sea.   
''But she was forced,'' Gil-galad protested.  
  
''I know. I also know who did it even though she will say naught. But this speaks while she is silent.'' Círdan opened his hand. A great brooch pin shone there, the insignia of the House of Fëanor worked in ruby and gold, overlaid by a harp with gleaming strings of silver.  
  
''That is Maglor's emblem. _Maglor_ raped her?'' Gil-galad could not believe it.  
  
''She was holding it in her hand, the edges had ground into her skin, she must have torn it from him.''  
  
The king's black brows winged together. ''I never saw him wear this, though that means nothing. I know it is his. I will see her, if she will permit it.''  
  
''She will permit it, I am sure. Let me speak to her first, sire.'' The Shipwright's long fingers quenched the ominous flash of the gems as they closed over the brooch.  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The woman was seated on a cushioned settle in the long, light room which looked west. Her profile was still as a carving, but as the door opened she turned and made to rise. Círdan strode forward and gently pressed her back down.  
  
He knew her from the time the refugees of Gondolin had settled at the Havens. It grieved him to think she had escaped the sack of that city only to be violated by one of her own kin, but he grieved for all who had died or been bereaved in this, the third Kinslaying. There were hair-thin lines of pain drawn under her eyes, and she folded her arms across her stomach, a gesture which at first he thought as comforting, then realized was protective.  
  
"My lord Círdan, I thank thee for bringing me to thy house." Her voice was mild. There were no tears in it. He looked at her closely but discerned nothing to cause him alarm. Her face was colorless, without expression, until he handed her the great brooch. Then, like wind over the sea, fragments of emotion ruffled it.  
  
''I thought it was lost.'' Her shoulders heaved and the milky calm was shattered. She lowered her face so he would not see her tears.  
  
''It was Maglor then, Fanari?'' he asked gently and her head came up. Water glossed her cheeks, catching the light.  
  
''I knew him once, when I was very young. He gave me this at Mereth Aderthad. I saw him twice after in Nevrast, with Maedhros and Caranthir...'' She began to shake. ''He was kind. The madness of the oath has taken him.'' Her hand gripped the brooch.  
  
''I did not know thou didst know him, I thought this was torn from his cloak.'' If Maglor had known her, somehow that made it worse. She had not been some nameless woman but one he had known.   
''Nothing can excuse such an act, all have a choice.''  
  
''It was Elwing's _choice _ to throw herself from the cliff and abandon her children rather than give up the Silmaril!'' Fanari came to her feet, her arms were driven down stiffly at her sides, hands clenched into fists. ''All who touch those jewels come under the Doom, my lord. Maglor did not even know me, all he saw was that he and his brother were damned forever !'' Tears splashed down onto her gown and she said, on shaken breaths around the sobs. ''I bear his seed. His son. And he will know his father and bear his name!''  
  
Círdan said, on a note of revelation and pity, ''Thou didst love him.''  
  
''Yes, but he was not for me. What does it matter? I _will_ bear his son! I will bear one of the blood of Fëanor! And I will _ love_ this child.''   
  
The storm passed. Now the tears spilled down a face set in fierce resolve.   
''I would not see blood so brilliant go down in darkness and death forever, Círdan. I care not that their names are a curse. I loved Maglor. I grieve for him. And I will love his child.''   
  
From the doorway, where he waited in courtesy and silence, Gil-galad leaned his brow against the cool stone and closed his eyes. ~  
  
  



	24. Hatred And Hope

**Hatred And Hope.**

~The brothers put as much distance as they could between themselves the dashing of their hope. The remaining Silmarilli were set still within Morgoth's crown in Angband and there seemed no hope but to attempt to retrieve the jewels by stealth. Never again could they summon such an army as had come forth to the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

Their road lay east, skirting _Taur-im-Duinath._ They made camp that night close to the eaves of that vast forest, and there they buried Amrod and Amras. Maglor took his harp and played music of such sadness and beauty that Elrond and Elros wept for the loss of their parents, and the hurt done to Fanari, their friend.

The last harp notes faded and a rustle of wind came out of the west, shivering the flames of the fires.

The warriors began to move, heating wine, checking armor and harness. The scent of roasting meat and hot wine made the boys suddenly realize how hungry and thirsty they were. Elros tugged at his bonds futilely.

''That is enough.'' One of the men came across.

''We need food and water,'' Elrond said, glaring up.

''Thou wilt be fed when we all eat.'' The warrior turned away and vanished in the dark.

''I am so thirsty,'' Elros whispered leaning his head against his brothers for a moment.

''So am I.''

''Will they kill us?''

Elrond shook his head. ''We are hostages, I think.'' But he had no faith in those two fell-eyed Fëanorions who had killed as easily as breathing. He closed his eyes, re-living his mother's fall from the cliff, her white robes billowing out like wings. She had seemed to hang forever against the wild sky, and then she fell, and a great white bird had arisen, the Silmaril shining at its breast.

He had felt the recognition of Power running through him. _She lives!_ But he also believed – _knew_ –  
that if he ever saw her or his father again it would not be for a long, long time.

_How could she have left us?_ he wondered, wanting to cry again.

The splash of liquid pouring roused him from a half doze. Warriors were seated around the fire, steam rising from their cups as they sipped. His throat was parched.  
"Please," he said. "We need water."

''Is there any need to waste water on thee, half-breed?'' One of the men looked over the rim of his cup with a grim smile. ''Our lords may have no use for thee now.''

Fear lanced through the twins; the meaning was plain enough.

"Enough!"

A shape blotted out the firelight, and the boys looked up. The man set a cup to each of their mouths, and even seeing whom it was, they had to drink. Their young bodies were desperate for fluid. When they had drained the water Maglor knelt and tested their bound wrists. They flinched away from him.

Taking rope, he tied another length about their wrists and then a knife flashed. Elros cried out and then felt the tighter binding part and fall. Now the ties about them were looser and did not constrict the blood-flow. They watched as Maglor rose and returned with two platters of food and refilled the goblets with small measures of hot, honeyed wine.

''I am not hungry.'' Elrond eyed him balefully.

''I am sure thou wilt find thou art.'' Maglor's eyes were hidden by a sweep of black lashes.

''Why give us food if thou art only going to kill us?'' Elros asked bitterly, his voice shaking.

''We will not kill thee.'' Maglor did look up then and they shrank back at the fierceness of his eyes, the emotions they were too young to understand: weariness, cold rage, despair.

''I do not believe you!'' Elrond flashed.

The straight shoulders shrugged, and the great black fall of hair swept to his knees as he looked down at them.  
''Believe what thou wilt.'' He turned and walked silently away.

The twins eyed the platters and the cups, the aroma driving them almost mad with hunger. Elros hesitantly reached out with both hands as if his brother would rebuke him, and picked up a cut of hot meat. He chewed, and it set the juices flowing in his empty stomach. Swallowing, he reached for another portion.

Elrond gave in his fight and the two ate ravenously. After they had finished they sipped the wine, and the effect of the drink atop the events of the day brought exhaustion down on them. They lay back on the grass, Elros tucking his head against his brother's shoulder.

~~~

''No. I cannot kill them,'' Maedhros said coming silently to his brothers side. ''Not now.'' He drew Maglor against him.

"We only have each other," Maedhros whispered, then kissed Maglor's brow, and walked to his bedroll.

Maglor picked his own up and crossed to the sleeping boys. When they woke, they might try to escape and they were too young to know of survival and hunting in the wilds. He shook out a fur and draped it over them, then lay down close by.

The stars glittered coldly above, and there was no comfort anywhere. He had seen his brothers die, he had killed, he had raped...where anywhere, was forgiveness for such as he? He flung an arm across his eyes, blocking out the lights above.

  
***

  
The hot, windless day lingered, reluctantly yielding to dusk.  
Maglor did not notice when a small breeze sprang up, carrying the rich scent of honeysuckle, neither did the voice saying his name penetrate his consciousness until a hand settled on his shoulder. He started, looking up into Maedhros' eyes, seeing the wasteland behind them.

''Thou hast not left this room all day.''

''Is it evening already? I was watching the children in the garth.''

''They cannot escape.''

''That is not my first concern.'' Maglor sat back. ''They are without parents. They do not trust us, and who can blame them? They have lost everything.''

''We did not force their mother to throw herself from a cliff,'' Maedhros retorted. ''We will do all we can for them.''

''It may not be enough.''  
They looked at one another in the shadowed room.

''Come out to the ramparts, breathe the air, brother.''

Maglor nodded, wondering that through his constant anguish Maedhros could still reach out to others pain.

The air was clear and scented with the windrows of hay cut to dry. From here they looked northward. To the west, Andram, the Long Wall marched. The east was already hazy, violet with the setting of the sun.

''If we could abrogate our oath, if we could reverse the things that we have done, would we not? I should have prevented thee from that act at the Havens. Look at me. I know it eats at thee and thou wilt not speak of it.''

Maglor's fingers gripped the stonework.  
''I have killed so many, what is one more?'' he asked bitterly. ''Women, children...take not that blame on thyself! Thou couldst have stopped me? I should have stopped _myself!_ Thou hast never fallen as low as I. I cannot even remember her face! When I saw the woman raped by orcs...there was such a black sense of evil in that room. I slew her to give her peace...! I could understand killing, in war, in hate, but never _rape._ Now, in what way am I any different to those orcs, brother?''

Maedhros cursed. ''All of us have fallen that low. Thou didst rape, we have all slain unarmed men and women. I felt nothing, watching thee. I admit it. I have not been able to feel aught since Fingon...'' His eyes slammed shut. He did not tell his brother that he had recognized the woman, known who she was. She brought back memories of Vinyamar, of his lover. It had seemed wrong to see some-one from those times who lived while Fingon was dead. That thought was so wrong it verged on insanity. And he could not help it. He had looked on while she was raped, dispassionate as stone.

''I did not care. I cannot bring myself to compassion, Maglor. The only reason I did not kill those two children is because...they are twins. As our brothers were.''

Maglor's face radiated sorrow. ''I know. But take not more upon thine own shoulders. Thou wouldst not kill them. I know that.''

''I am so very weary.'' Maedhros massaged his temples. ''I am never free of this. We will never be free of it now.'' He felt Maglor's arm lock around him and then the muscles in it became hard as stone.A hiss broke from his lips. Maedhros' eyes flashed open.

A star was rising in the West.

It rode into the twilight like a harbinger of hope. The other stars faded against its glory as it mounted higher as if in challenge or triumph, blue-white and incandescent.

Guards on the ramparts were pointing, their voices exclaiming. Maglor caught his brother's arm in a grip which drove to the bone.

''That is the Silmaril,'' Maedhros whispered. There was no other light like it.

''If it truly is, then no evil can touch it.'' An astonishing emotion swept through Maglor. How many times had he seen the Silmarilli blazing on his father's brow? The only light to match them was Fëanor's eyes.  
For a long moment they gazed and Maglor thought: _ Adar, adar, the Silmarilli were truly meant to crown thee – or Arda itself. _

''But two are still held in Angband," Maedhros murmured. "And we must make firm our plans.''

_ Thou hast seen Angband, I would offer myself to Morgoth before I let him subject thee to torment again._ But the thought was held in Maglor's mind. They had but two choices: surrender their souls to the Everlasting Dark, or attempt to reclaim the two remaining Silmarilli.

''Whither thou goest, I go,'' he said, then moved away and looked over the inner wall. ''The children must see this.''

The two identical faces rose warily as Maglor approached them, great grey eyes shuttered and vulnerable.

''Come with me.'' They did not react to his outstretched hand. ''There is something thou shouldst see.''

When he turned and walked back to the steps, they followed him with unwilling curiosity. Maedhros stood there, silent and still. Maglor pointed to the west.

''Look.''

They stared, their eyes wide. Elrond clutched at Elros' hand.  
''It shines like the Silmaril.''

''It is, I think. Perhaps the Valar acted to save thy mother and she was taken to Aman. The star rises in the west.''

''I never believed she was dead.'' Elrond's face shook a little. ''B-but so far away...'' He bit his lip against the quaver in his voice.

''Yet it is surely a sign of hope for thee.'' Maglor murmured.

''Yes. Hope,'' Elros whispered.

''Can we go home now, sir?'' Elros asked, his voice jumping with excitement.

Maedhros swung around then. ''To what home? It is destroyed!''

Elros' cheeks paled, but Elrond exclaimed breathlessly: ''Our friends would look after us...'' A tide of colour swept over his face. ''Our friend...she was with us...''

Maglor made a breathless sound. Maedhros looked at the twins in sudden aching realization. They were too young to know.

''Elves whom are...misused...die.'' Maglor's mellifluous voice was stripped to the core with shame and pain.

''Die?'' Elrond whispered, tears filling his eyes.

''It is true. I am sorry.'' Maedhros strode away, vanishing down the steps.

''No!'' Elrond screamed. His grey eyes sheened with furious tears as he struck out at Maglor. ''I pray that thou may be as hurt as she was, _kinslayer!_'' He whipped around, taking his brothers hand and they fled down the steps to their rooms.

Maglor bowed his head.

  
***

  
It was close to dawn when Maglor set down his harp. The notes had flowed from his soul; all the anguish, the love, the hate, and lost glory were transmuted into what he called the _ Noldolantë,_ the Fall of the Noldor.

_And still we fall...there is no end to it. We will fall forever._

The star was so bright that it cast shadows onto the grass. The fortress was utterly silent after his playing had ceased, the dawn chorus of birds had not yet begun but the sky was paling in the east, drawing back the light-spangled veil of the night.

He heard a soft sound from under one of the the trees and paused. The children did not move, only huddled closer to one another in a gesture familiar to Maglor from the time when Amrod and Amras were young, their solidarity closing off any intrusion. His heart ached.  
_ My brothers, my brothers. Where art thou? _

He went down into a hunters crouch beside them.

''It was an evil thing.'' His sumptuous voice came quiet as the night. ''The kinslayings...the deaths...We are damned. We cannot make atonement. I am sorry to my heart. But thou art in no danger from us. We had twin brothers, once.''

They made no answer and he rose, turned away, but Elrond's voice halted him.  
''_Art_ thou sorry? Truly?'' His voice was choked.

Maglor felt an uprush of emotion he could not quench. The question held a child's simplicity, the need to have something proven to him. Under the words lay a loneliness and desolation which chimed with all that was in the Fëanorion's own heart.  
A tear streaked his face; he made no effort to wipe it away.  
''I know how it feels to grieve for those lost to us. There is no forgiveness for the acts we have committed, for what I did to the lady who was thy friend. But we will take care of thee.'' Even as he said it, Maglor thought of Elwing's words: _I will never trust a Kinslayer!_  
He drew severity about him as a cloak. ''It is near dawn. Thou shouldst rest a little.''

For a moment the twins did not move, then they came to their feet together. Maglor walked with them to their chambers, and watched them climb into the bed they shared. Without thinking, he drew the coverlet up over them and then left the room.

''He was crying,'' Elros whispered.

''I know.''

''Does he mean what he said, Elrond?''

There was silence in the dim room for a few heartbeats.

''I think,'' Elrond said very softly. ''Evil people do not cry.'' He hugged his brother tightly and thus embracing they fell asleep.

  
***

  
A northern gale bayed like a wolf-pack about Amon Ereb late that winter, bringing snow. Guards came down from their posts for hot wine and to stand around braziers while others took their place, but nothing moved in the storm to require their observance.  
When the storm blew itself out, the sun rose into a sky the tint of a thrush's egg and the land gleamed white-gold.

The twins had never seen snow. It had not fallen in the Havens. Opening the shutters they stared out at the garth which was transformed as if gleaming sand had been poured over grass and tree. With one accord they dressed, lured out by the temptation to experience this new thing.

Their feet left barely an imprint in the white surface. They jumped up and down, burrowing their hands into the crispness, feeling the chill melt and compact as they squeezed it. Elros scooped up a handful and tossed it at his brother. It exploded in a powdery puff over his face, and with a cry of surprise, Elrond retaliated.

The sound of their laughter drew Maglor from the stables. There was a pang in his heart for something long lost, yet he was glad to hear it.

Letting himself into the garden, he glanced up as a flash of colour caught his eye. Maedhros was at his window, looking out, and their eyes met for a wordless moment before returning to the boys. The copper head vanished and Maglor closed the gate behind him.

Two snowballs struck the boys simultaneously, shocking them into outraged silence. A moment later, the Fëanorions came under a barrage.

Maedhros and Maglor sank to their knees as the children leaped on them, whooping victory cries. For a little while, they were taken back to the years in Tirion, when their own twin brothers had been young. The small bodies were warm and supple, faces cold against their throats. As they fell forward, Elrond and Elros tumbled off into the snow, gasping and laughing. Their cheeks were flushed, their eyes sparkling as they came to their feet.

''Victory to the House of Eärendil!'' Elros cried and fell into Elrond's arms, chuckling.

Maglor brushed snow from his tunic and caught Maedhros' eyes. Under the opacity of bereavement was something tender which warmed his heart.

''The House of Eärendil will be needing dry clothes,'' he said, smiling. ''To say nothing of the House of Fëanor. Come.''

After they had changed, the twins were brought to Maglor's chamber. A fire burned brightly and steam rose from a pitcher of hot, honeyed milk. The boys sat on the settle before the blaze, their damp hair slowly drying as they ate and drank.

''Can we go back out, my lords?'' Elrond asked as he put his empty goblet down.

''We have never seen snow,'' Elros explained earnestly.

''Gil used to love the snow.'' Maedhros' voice came almost distantly. ''He used to build with it. Towers, animals, people...''

''Build with it?'' Elrond asked. ''As we did with sand?''

Maedhros nodded, sorrow stamped hard in his eyes.  
''Yes,'' he said. ''There were gloves made for thee were there not?'' He looked at his brother.

''Yes, they have gloves. Why didst thou not wear them?''

''Because,'' Elros said patiently. "We did not know it would be cold.''

The eyes of the Fëanorions' warmed briefly in private smiles.

''If thou wilt put thy gloves on, we will show you how to make sculptures out of snow,'' Maedhros promised.

  
***

  
The fire crackled peacefully. Beyond the windows the sky was darkening. One last smudge of ice-yellow vanished in the west, and Gil Estel was a beacon, the clarity of the icy air making it appear close enough to reach out and grasp.  
Maglor turned away, walked down to the hall for the evening meal.

The twins ate hungrily, appetites whetted by play, and once this was appeased, they sat back and became steadily more drowsy. Leaving the warriors to their wine and talk, Maedhros and Maglor lead the children up to their rooms.

''Wilt thou play for us, lord Maglor?'' Elrond asked, and Maglor looked around in surprise from where he laid wood upon the fire. The flames etched his face and turned his eyes to mirrors.

''_Only_ when thou art both in bed,'' he said.

Maedhros seated himself as the twins plumped up the pillows and sat back. Maglor slid the harp from his shoulder.

_ There was a time before the fall,  
when light was sovereign, light was all,  
the days were long, there was no night,  
No need for sun or pale moonlight,  
Upon a mound so green and tall,  
Grew Trees, and from them both did fall,  
A dew of gold and silver rain..._

And Maglor's music and voice brought to the eyes of the children a vision of Ezellohar, crowned with Telperion and Laurelin. The Light that had been before the Sun and Moon surrounded them and reflected in their wide eyes. The song drew them to Tirion and Valmar and they saw the Woods of Oromë and the pastures of Yavanna, and the great white mountain-tower of Taniquetil before the last gentle harp notes drew sleep over them. Maglor had enhanced Valinor with his song; the boys were too young to have his own cynicism and disenchantment foisted on them.  
He laid down the harp and rose. ''Let us carry them to bed.''

The twins hardly stirred as they were undressed, only moving comfortably and trustfully into the down mattress and pillows.

''I wonder what waits for them in their lives?'' Maedhros whispered, and looked across the bed at Maglor's face. ''A right good father thou wouldst have made.''

''I would have drawn no child into this doom.''

''As our father drew us?''

"We chose it. And our father was...Fëanor." All the love and grief in Maglor's soul was in the name. Maedhros nodded and drew him into his arms. ~

~~~


	25. The Last Fall

** Descent Into Darkness**

~ The child was happy and drowsy as he walked up the green path from the beach. His feet were bare, grains of sand clung to his pale skin, his hair was tousled and the short tunic splashed with sea-water. His delighted chuckles and endless questions had faded to a sun-warmed quiet.

The woman who carried an empty water-skin and basket smiled down at the head below her, the hair tangled into coils. It had been dark when he was born but lightened to bronze as he grew, vivid as autumn beech-leaves. As if conscious of her regard, the child looked up. Under long lashes his eyes were silver. He pressed his head against her waist and she heard his first yawn.

''A bath,'' she smiled. ''And food, and then sleep.''

''But I like to see the stars come out,'' he murmured, a token protest overtaken by another yawn.

''Sleep now, and perhaps we can watch them before dawn.'' She knew that to refuse him directly would only turn him mulishly stubborn.

He considered, nodded and they walked on. The path leveled out here, before rising again to a scatter of white villas which spilled down into a sheltered harbor.

From this elevation they could see the cove and, now that the tide was out, the long white curve of sand which rounded a headland to the north. At this time of day one might walk all the way from the town to the High Kings own white-stone port beyond that headland.

Mother and son paused to look back. Great ships were out on the sea, riding the currents and swell like swans. Gulls wheeled overhead. The late afternoon was filled with the scent of brine, the spice of gorse and heather rich as incense. The boy loved that smell, it was dense behind the walls of his mother's small garden, an entangling of many odors which over-rode the ever-present salt of the sea.

''Look.'' He pointed.

A group of riders were galloping from the north using the hard sand to allow their horses to run free. With the backdrop of the sea and sun they shone, pouring over the sands, a living wave of grace and power.

Turning as one, they approached the track which lead up to the cliffs and swept by, taking the way down to Círdan's dwelling. The boy clutched his mother's hand as he watched. The leading rider's hair was a wind-tossed, shimmering black banner and his stallion's headstall glittered with gems.

''Whom is that,_ nana?_''

Fanari looked down at her son. ''It is the High King Gil-galad, Tindómion.''

~~~

She went to his room later, as he slept.

_Tindómion._

He had no father to name him, but when he was born the great star Gil Estel had been shining in the last dark before dawn. As she held the babe she had though of the loss of the mighty ones, their splendor winking out as the stars did when the sun rose. But for a time Gil Estel refused to fade and thus she saw her son: bright-burning as the Ages drew on.

Engendered in violence. Born to sorrow, to blood, born to burn, as all the ill-fated House of Fëanor.

Fanari had known from the day of his birth that there would indeed be a bond between herself and Maglor, but it would be through their son, Tindómion. And he was beautiful, the only thing of brightness and hope she had salvaged out of the doom of the Noldor.

There were those who looked askance at her, said she should have died were she raped, so surely it could not have been rape. Her body would not have allowed this seed, spilled in an act of brutality, to grow, her soul would have rejected the violation. Yet sleeping here, in the artless peace of a child, was a small, true-formed image of a Fëanarion.

_ ''I wanted to bear Maglor's child,'' she had said to Círdan not long after Tindómion was born. ''Although many will believe it something crooked in me, I know.''_

''Wilt thou not speak with the king?'' Cirdan asked. ''He loved Maedhros and Maglor. He would take thee into his household.''

''I am content to let my son grow here, my Lord. But I would like him, when he is older, to pledge his allegiance to Gil-galad.''

''He has asked after thee. He would see thee, and do thee honor.''

''Honor? I need no honor. The King bears many burdens without my presence adding to them. Is it not true that his mother loathes the House of Fëanor?''

The Shipwright nodded, his face guarded. ''True enough.''

''Then it would not be meet for me to dwell in his household, nor for my son to endure the despite of those who hate his blood,'' Fanari said with a glint in her eyes. "When Tindómion is grown and may be of service to Gil-galad, I will speak to the king myself.''

''Thou knowest he would welcome a son of Maglor.''

''Others,'' she said. ''will not.''

~~~

There were other children left without parents after the attack upon the Haven's, so for Tindómion to be without a father was not so unusual among the folk of Balar. At least had a mother; some had been reft of both mother and father. He assumed that his father had been killed in the third kinslaying because Fanari gave him no reason to think otherwise. She kept herself apart, and no-one said anything to the boy. But she knew she would have to tell him when he came to adulthood.

The War of Wrath came when Tindómion was scarce two years old.

For Eärendil had indeed come even unto Valinor as the voice and emissary of all Elves and Men of Middle-earth. And the Valar and the Eldar of Aman came to Endor.

The Elves saw them come. Their hosts filled the north in a blaze of glory, and those who dwelt in Beleriand were lead from their homes eastward across the Ered Luin. Even as they marched they heard the beginning of the tumult in the north, and the sky at night flickered with perilous lights.

Morgoth's power had grown so great that all Anfauglith itself was too small to contain it, and yet none of it availed him. It was said after that most of the orcs were slain and the Balrog's and dragons with them. It was a time when those who settled in Lindon became accustomed to the tremoring of the earth and the roar of the sky, to bitter winters and storms and drought, to power which changed the face of the world.

In those years Tindómion grew. He yearned to take up arms and join the warriors who had gone north, the High King among them, for all who could bear weapon had mustered and marched. All the youths desired this and began their training young, but none were permitted to ride north until they were come of age. They came under the rule of Gil-galad and that was his command, too many had been lost already for him to throw more lives away.  
Tindómion was almost fifty when the War ended, nine days to young to join the army.

News came back as the years went on, of collisions of might and power which shocked the very airs, brought unseasonal storms sweeping across Lindon and the wild lands beyond.

But that day was ominously still.

The only battle witnessed by the Elves of Lindon was the one which took place in the high airs, when Eärendil rose to meet the great winged drake, Ancalagon the Black. It was so far north that all they saw was the gloom of blackness there and the shining brilliance which contended with it until the Mariner slew the dragon and the beast fell, breaking Thangorodrim in his ruin. They heard, but did not see, Morgoth dragged forth from his deepest halls and thrown upon his face, the Silmarilli taken from him and his iron crown beaten into a collar.

The wind and birds themselves seemed to carry the news, as if a whisper ran through all Arda.

_ Morgoth is defeated. Angband is unroofed! _

The earth breathed it, the air became an exhalation of relief. A weight lifted from the souls of the Elves before any word had come. Triumph exploded from the minds of those who fought in the north and blazed from them like fire, touching all of their kin.

And then came the summons to all the Elves who had dwelt in Beleriand from Eönwë, Herald of the Valar, that the Elves were to depart from Middle-earth and abide forever in Aman.

A great encampment was raised in Lindon whence came the Elves who had not warred, wishing to find their loves, their friends, and to take council. The banners of the Valar, the Vanyar and the Noldor of Tirion snapped under a sky which flew its own flags of storm. Such power unleashed over the world had changed many things. Chasms had opened and the sea rushed in, and the earth was rent and torn by fire and quake. Fair Beleriand was drowned under the encroaching seas, leaving only isles pricking its surface.

Fanari looked across the new waters which heaved uneasily under a fierce sky and wept. All the wars, all the griefs, the crumbled bones, the blood, the fallen towers, the rivers and forests, the love and despair and hate was covered by Belegaer as if the Valar wished it forgotten.

''But nothing is forgotten,'' she murmured to herself.

''Mother?''

She turned her head.

The gusting wind made a bannerole of the bronze hair. Her son's face was pure and white and beautiful. He was smiling a little. He thought that she would accept the call to Valinor, and she had said naught. She felt ineffectual against such an edict of the Powers. If Maglor were alive and heeded the command then she would go, for Tindómion must know his father.

What choice did she have? The Valar had called, would not all the Elves answer it?

_ But I was born here. _

''I will not go to the encampment,'' she had said to Círdan. ''But my son wishes to. I know he will be well looked to with thee and if...he should meet his sire, it is better that I am not there.''

''I will care for him, Fanari,'' Círdan had assured her, so now Tindómion came to bid her farewell.

''Go well, my son,'' she murmured. ''Take heed of Círdan.''

''I will, mother, I promise.'' There was a glitter of exhilaration in his eyes. He had been disappointed not to fight in the war. He bent and kissed her cheek, and she watched him ride away with a salute. One hand rose to her throat.  
_ Eru, child, thou art so like them! _

_I may see my father and mother again, Glorfindel and Ecthelion, all those I have loved. Tindómion can know his father, and there will be peace. Is it possible? What happened to those who died under the Doom?_  
There had been no word.

She folded her arms and stared out across the ocean.

~~~

The encampment was vast, spreading league upon league. Pennons fluttered from pavilions, horses were penned to graze, and Tindómion saw badges of Houses that he had only ever heard of, Vanyar and Teleri out of Alqualondë.

Wonder unfurled within Tindómion as he rode beside Círdan. It seemed as if almost every Elf dwelling in Beleriand and Aman must be here. In such a concourse he felt he could easily fade and simply observe. But people looked at him as he passed and it took him a while to realize why: in all that gathering he saw none with hair his color. He had never seen it on Balar either, but forgot it as he helped with the pitching of the tents. His heart was filled with expectation.

He did not have any presentiment of what would happen that same night.

He did not know that this was the closest he would come to his father for thousands of years.

~~~

They were still what they had ever been, but both now were sick and weary of the dreadful Oath which bound them, a weight of mountains on their hearts. They loathed it and themselves as, wearing dark clothes over their armor they walked, unchallenged through the night into the encampment.

''Yet more blood,'' Maglor whispered as he drew his sword.

The guards were taken by surprise, and although they fought, they stood little chance against those two, so driven and hardened by their wars. The brothers slew them with ease, and burst through into the pavilion.

The Silmarilli were placed in a casket of crystal, and all the interior of the tent glowed with their radiance. Drawn toward it like summer moths to a lamp they approached, and Maedhros lifted the lid of the casket.

''Oh, father,'' he whispered ''It is done...Maglor...''

For a moment they stared at one another their faces harrowed and beautiful, yet their eyes held no joy no triumph, only the broken dreams of many centuries.

''We must go.''

Their hands reached out and closed about the jewels and they fled.

But the camp was roused now. Maglor's sword rose and fell in a sudden shear of blood, for Maedhros had but one hand and that held the Silmaril.

''It burns!'' Maglor hissed through his teeth even as he whirled. His blade entered a body and withdrew.

''**NO!**'' Eönwë's voice echoed like thunder across the skies. ''Put up! They are not to be harmed!''

Enraged, bewildered, the Elven warriors yet obeyed, and the two last living sons of Fëanor ran into the darkness. The world was broken and changed in those northern regions; great fissures in the earth glowed with fire and ember smoke. Beyond, the Great Sea roared against the new coastlines.

''_Oh, father!_ I cannot hold it, it burns me !''  
Maedhros stumbled and came to a halt. Fumes wreathed about him, the light catching the copper of his hair, turning it to a mane of blood. He opened his left hand. It ran with scarlet.

''So much blood...'' His face was destitute, graven with anguish. ''Our sins are too great.''

Maglor's sonorous voice came muted. ''He rejects us. We are lost.''

Blood hung in droplets from their fingers, then gathered in weight and fell to the ground. It hissed against hot stone.

''Maglor, it is ended.'' Maedhros' eyes held his brother's. He drew the shining jewel against his breast.  
And stepped back.

''Maedhros!'' Maglor leaped to the edge of the chasm, reaching out.''_No! _''

His blood-slicked fingers slipped from Maedhros' armor. He saw the dark shape of his brother silhouetted by red light, long hair billowing upwards. He felt the last thoughts from a beloved mind which had endured too much. It was the only thing he could do, the last thing he could share.  
_ Oh, my brother..._

The burning grew greater, deeper, all around him now, within him...perhaps it could destroy the pain in his heart.

''Father !'' His voice throbbed with agony '' Maglor...'' then, at the last: ''Oh, _Fin..!_''  
His clothes caught alight, his armor glowed red, his hair blazed.

Too much pain...

And then, in one last furious burst which tore a scream of agony from his lungs, it was gone...

Maglor did not even realize he ran. He was mad with horror. His blood, _cursed blood,_ pounded in his ears as he fled he knew not where. He thought he heard laughter from somewhere far away, the satisfied chuckle of a winning game-player.  
His hair streamed back in a sudden slap of cold air. It smelled of brine and night.

All gone. All of them.

He opened his hand. It was sticky with blood.

''_Father!_'' His bard's voice rose over the angry beating of the ocean. ''_I failed thee!_

He drew back his arm, and threw.

The Silmaril flew from his bloody hand, far, far out, blazing, a star of incandescent beauty; falling, falling, until it met the seething waves and the sea, for a moment, shone with brilliance.  
And then, as the jewel sank slowly through the deep waters, the light faded, and went out... ~

~~~

It was the darkest time before dawn and Tindómion had not long lain down. The day had overwhelmed his senses with sheer excitement and although he did not admit it, when Círdan had said he needed to rest for a while, he had made no demur. He was glad to have time alone, to assimilate all he had seen and heard.  
He jerked violently from sleep, his heart pounding as he sat up. A voice resonant with power rang through the air:  
''_Put up! They are not to be harmed!_''

Voices rose in anger, grief, protest and Tindómion rose, reaching for his breeches and boots. He pushed through the tent flap. Lamps and torches were lit, some caught the glint of sword-metal, armor. There was a glint of silvery hair close by as Círdan came swiftly to him, and put out a hand.  
''Come inside.'' His voice was almost curt and Tindómion followed him without question.

''Thou wilt know that of the sons of Fëanor only two lived? Maedhros and Maglor?'' he asked and Tindómion nodded bewilderedly.  
''They entered the camp in disguise, slew the guards who were set about the Silmarilli, and have vanished.''

Tindómion swallowed through a throat unexpectedly dry. ''They...what does this mean, my Lord?''

''I know not what it means for them with yet more blood on their souls, but this news must be taken back to our people.''

''Lord Círdan?''

''Yes?''

''Wilt thou go to Valinor?''

The Teleri shook his head. ''No, the Valar will not command this, it is what they desired and did from the beginning when first they knew of our waking beside Cuiviénen. I woke there and have ever loved Middle-earth. I will not leave it willingly. I will remain in Lindon and build my white ships for those who would depart.'' His eyes were kind as they looked at the other. ''Thou doth wish to leave?''

''I thought I did.'' Tindómion flushed. ''I wanted to find my father, one day," he murmured and the Shipwrights gaze became intent. ''Is it sooth that those who are slain will be reborn? Even the Exiles?''

''So it is said. I have never seen any who have returned from the Halls of Mandos. But there is another choice. Some souls may not heed Mandos' call and drift forever in Middle-earth.''

''That is a lonely fate,'' Tindómion said somberly. ''But my father is _Golodh_ and surely his spirit would pass to the Halls of Waiting and be reborn in time?''

The unexpected vulnerability in his voice brought a frown into Círdan's eyes. He had not realized how much Tindómion longed to know his father.

''And what if he remained on Middle-earth?'' The question was gentle.

Tindómion hesitated and then said flatly: ''Then I would stay.''

It was past time, Círdan thought, for Fanari to speak to her son of his heritage.

~~~

The weather was more settled when they reached Lindon. As he looked down at the great firth which gleamed under the sun, Tindómion saw the signs of activity. Wood was being hauled down to the harbor, stone was being carted from quarries, a sign that many meant to depart and some, like the Shipwright, were remaining. He wondered what the high king would do, what he himself would do. He had thought that the call to leave Middle-earth was a command but if it were not...

He had spent the journey back considering what he had been told. He had never before heard of an Elven soul refusing Mandos, choosing to remain forever houseless on Middle-earth. Was that lorn choice one his father would have made if he believed that, as an Exile, he would not be offered re-birth?

Tindómion had never broached the subject of his father. His mother's face could appear so sad at times. She looked at him with love, often with pride, but if he glimpsed her when she was unaware, he saw a deep sorrow which he was loathe to stir with his questions. Yet he longed to know. He had thought that if he had been able to fight in the War he could prove something both to his mother and his dead father.

The room was full of sunlight. It cast Fanari's face into shadow as she turned from the balcony, and he could not see her expression until he closed the gap between them and embraced her. She returned it fervently and then stepped back and looked up at him.

''Thou knowest why we returned so soon?'' he asked, almost tripping over the words. ''Ah, I cannot describe what we saw...and I saw but little, but I felt it...light and power...but then Círdan said we must hasten to return.'' His mother's eyes seemed to pull the words from him. ''Thou hast _not_ heard, then? The Silmarilli which were recovered from the Iron Crown were taken by Eönwë, the herald of the Valar and guarded by the Vanyar. I saw naught, but I heard...Maedhros and Maglor entered the camp and slew the guards, and Eönwë would not have them slain. They escaped. I know not why, but Círdan deemed that we must come back with that news.''

Fanari's hands locked over her mouth as if she held back a sob or a curse. Tindómion saw her eyes well with tears. After a long moment, she lowered her hands.

''Does...any-one know what happened to them?'' she asked, as if dreading the answer.

''I have heard nothing.'' His black brows drew down. ''It is an evil act, yet they were not punished for it, even as they were unpunished for the Sack of Doriath and when they came down upon the Haven's and my father was killed.''

An odd, stifled choke came from behind his mother's hands. She turned, stepped out onto the balcony and braced herself against the balustrade. Tindómion saw her shoulders heave once, and then she said as if her throat were clogged with tears:  
''Think not that they do not suffer for their deeds. Then they did not go to Aman.''

''What suffering could possibly atone for their acts, mother?'' he demanded and she turned.

''Thou doth hate them, yet I say to thee that they pay in anguish each day. They have lost a father, brothers...''

''And they have killed fathers and brothers, daughters, wives, innocent children! '' he flared. ''Mother, I do not understand thee! Thou wouldst defend them? And what matters their fate? They are gone and even if they have the Silmarilli, they have no friends. They are hated and cursed, and the Silmarilli have never caused aught but sorrow!''

She rubbed her hands together as if the pressure of the stone had hurt them. Her pupils had dilated so that her eyes looked black in the bright light, as she reached toward a small leather bag tied to her girdle. Plucking it open, she dipped in her fingers, drew out something that caught the light in a brilliant flash of gems.

''This was thy father's.'' Her voice came taut.

He received the brooch into his hand, staring at it. It covered his palm, perfectly round, the insignia laid into it with expert, delicate skill. Gold had been incised and melted ruby run into the patterns of a fiery flower. Over it in silver was the shape of a harp, strings delicate as hairs.

As a child, Tindómion had learned the lore of his people, and he knew what House this insignia represented. His head filled with heat and light. For heartbeats he could not see, could hear nothing but the surf-roar of the blood on in his ears.

''No.'' His lips shaped the word, made no sound.

''Thy father is Maglor son of Fëanor.''

''No.'' He denied it. Had to deny it.

''When they attacked the Haven's....thou wert engendered then.''

''How could..?'' He stared at her, saw her head shake.

"He did not love me. He gave me that brooch at Mereth Aderthad, when I was a child. I saw him in Vinyamar before we removed to Gondolin. I loved him and wanted him, but he was not for me. In Gondolin I still dreamed foolishly of him. And my dreams came to pass, on that day." She was crying now, tears slipping unheeded down her face. "He did not see me, did not know me. But I _ wanted _ a child by him. For him. I had loved him, and he suffered. I saw his face. And so...so. I lived to bear thee."

Tindómion's face was white as salt.  
''He raped thee.''

''I would have died...''

''Either it was rape or thou wert willing! What, in the midst of an array he paused to make love to thee?''

Color splashed into her face. ''I told thee he did not love me! I was in the way! All he saw was death and despair. He took me by force. I was going to die, I felt it and I felt _ thee _ ! Last Star of the House of Fëanor. And I lived to bear thee. For him. To give him _ something!_''

Tindómion staggered and sank to his knees, still gripping the brooch. He lowered his head and his wide shoulders tightened against sudden upwelling rage.

Neither of them heard Círdan enter but when he spoke both became still as if winter frost came down and froze them in place.

''There is news of them.'' Complications of pity wove in and out of Círdan's words. ''Gil-galad received a message from, he believes, a Maia. The Silmarilli burned them. Their deeds reproached them in pain and they could not hold that which they won in blood. Maedhros threw himself into a great rent in the earth and died in fire.''

A gull wheeled in the sky. Its call was a lament.

''It is said that Maglor cast his Silmaril into the ocean.''

Fanari's voice shook free.  
''He, h-he drowned...?''

Her son's head came up sharply.

''It is rumored that the sound of his singing has been heard on the shores. Elrond and Elros are returning to Lindon with Gil-galad. They grieve for the Sons of Fëanor. It seems they came to love the children, and that love was returned.''

Something leaped into Fanari's face: a pale gladness under the whiteness of grief.

''I will find him.'' The words carried implications of so many things that both his mother and Círdan stared at Tindómion.  
''I _ will_ find my father; this I vow! This is _my _ Oath!''  
And his white teeth bit off the last word. ~


	26. The Meeting Of Mithril And Flame

  


**The Meeting Of Mithril And Flame**

~ The lamp pushed the shadows back into the corners of the chamber, drew out the red in Tindómion's hair as he leaned over to pour wine. When his mother accepted the cup he sat back and waited.

"Love is not always reciprocated." Her voice eased gently into the silence. "I saw Maglor only four times. The first at Mereth Aderthad, later in Vinyamar. I I knew that he would never look at me with desire. But in Gondolin we were isolated from the outside world, and I had time to weave dreams." She smiled ruefully. "But it was not just that: I feared for him. I still do. I loved him, and so I lived. And though the House of Fëanor may ever be spoken of with hatred, I am proud that I bore one of its blood before all went down in fire and death."

Her son's hands were linked hard about the goblet.  
"Wouldst thou wed him, were he found?"

"No," she said absolutely. "There _ is _ a binding between us, it is simply not the one I yearned for when I was younger. It is thee. Anyhow," she paused, said thoughtfully with a glance at him: "He loved another."

''Some-one he could not have?''

''I do not know. Howbeit, it was not me. I simply want thee to find him. For _ both _ thy sakes.''

''I would kill him for what he did.''

''Then that would make thee his son indeed.'' She rose. ''A kinslayer.''

The words drove heat up into his face. ''How can I not avenge what he did to thee?'' he demanded.

''He gave me a son.'' She walked to the balcony, drew back the woven hangings. ''The bloodline of Fëanor began in so much glory. Maglor is the last son. He is alone and he has lost everything. Of his house only Celebrimbor and thyself survive. Glorfindel once told me that Fëanor wearing the Silmarilli on his brow was more magnificent, more perilous, than the Light of the Trees. And that is in thee, Tindómion. In time thou wilt understand. I was _ gifted _ with thee. Thou art Maglor's son even more than mine.''

  
~~~

  
Fanari spoke much to Tindómion after that. It was as if gates had been unbarred within her soul. Of her life in Vinyamar and Gondolin he knew already but now, he realized, she spoke to him as an adult, not only of her memories but of the emotions which formed them.

She had uttered no direct lie, he thought, in anything she had said of his father, save that she had allowed him to assume he had died in the attack on the Havens.

Fanari herself wanted his mind to be prised from its perception of the Fëanorions, to know his heritage and how the oath and the Doom of the Noldor had lain so heavily upon Maglor that he could never escape it.

It was then she spoke more revealingly of Glorfindel and Ecthelion, and their relationship. She said nothing of Fingon and Maedhros, for she was unsure how much Gil-galad knew, and if her son did take service under the high king, she did not wish him to speak of it unwittingly.

"I thought that such unions were against the laws." Tindómion frowned. "I have heard it said that their deaths and the deaths of Fingon were a delayed punishment for their sins."

"If that is true," she said. "then the laws are wrong."

  
~~~

  
When at last the last ships carrying the Elves to Valinor had departed, those who elected to remain in Lindon concerned themselves with the building and settlement of this new realm.

Círdan was lord of the Havens and dwelt in Mithlond, and many of his folk were Teleri. Gil-galad's realm was all of Lindon east to the River Lhûn and south to the Baraduin. His people were the Noldor who remained in Middle-earth and the Nandor also took him as their King. Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin, who alone of all her brothers had survived the Elder Days, had gone east to dwell about Lake Nenuial many years before, and with her were her husband Celeborn and some Iathrim Elves. Two of these, Oropher and Amdir, sons of Beleg Cúthalion, lead their people across Eriador and crossed the Towers of Mist to form realms in the great woods beyond, Lórinand and Greenwood the Great.

In this time was built villas and hunting lodges, the palace of the High King and the ports of Harlond and Mithlond, north and south of the Gulf of Lhûn.

  
~~~

  
The great ship nudged against the dock, the ramp went down, and the two men stepped down onto the quayside.

''He will be a great king.'' Elrond tried to close his face over the sadness in the words.

''Art thou regretting thy choice?'' Círdan asked gently. Elrond tugged at his leather gloves, drawing them over his fingers as if he needed something to do with his hands.

''I love the Elves. I wish to see my father and mother again...I do not know how Elros could have chosen to die. I thought we were inseparable in all things, and he has chosen mortality.''

''It is said that Morgoth made death a thing of horror, but that it was the gift of the One to Men. It is not the end, Elrond. Perchance they leave their bodies and become more glorious than we or even the Valar can know.''

''I believe that,'' Elrond murmured. ''It is not that which tears my heart, Lord Círdan, it is the separation from him. Forever.''

Laying a sympathetic hand on the other's shoulder, Círdan lead Elrond to his home.

''Thou wilt take Gil-galad as thy king?''

Elrond nodded, sipping wine as they sat in the sunlit room.  
''He grieved greatly when he learned of Maedhros' death. So did I. They were _good_ to us, Círdan. Is there still no news of Maglor?''

''Naught. Only rumors of his voice in desolate places.'' Círdan leaned forward. ''Thou wilt remember that I advised thee and Elros not to seek out Fanari Penlodiel.''

''Yes. I thought she had lost her mind perhaps,'' Elrond offered hesitantly. ''I could scarce believe that she lived.''

''Maglor never spoke of what he did?''

''No. And we...we hated him at first... hated both of them, but we came to see that he truly grieved, and Maedhros asked us not to.'' The Shipwright's brows went up curiously. ''Maedhros knew who she was. He said Maglor was mad, did not recognize her. I believe that. I saw him that day. Anyhow, Maedhros asked us not to speak her name. If Maglor truly was blind with insanity, then realizing he had raped some-one he had known would have been an even greater guilt. So we said nothing. Is she...well?''

''Yes, she is well. But there are things I cannot say, Elrond. They are for her to tell, and they can no longer be kept secret. When I told her that I sailed to Númenor to bring thee back, she asked if she might see thee. Perhaps tomorrow?''

Elrond nodded. ''Of course.'' He sounded vaguely mystified. ''I am glad beyond measure she is well, even though,'' he admitted. ''I do not understand it.''

''I think that when she had spoken with thee, matters will be clearer.'' Círdan said.

  
***

  
Fanari's house was built on the steep green hills above Harlond, and Elrond remembered her telling him of her childhood in Vinyamar. If the sea-longing stirred her, it was not evident in the siting of this villa, unless he wondered, it was an act of defiance against it. Why had she remained, when surely all healing would be found in Aman?

The long room was fronted by a pillared colonnade, and as he entered Fanari was standing there watching the door. Her simple gown was yellow as daffodils and her hair loose. The deep grey eyes were graver than he remembered, but their somberness vanished as she reached out her hands to him. He drew her into an embrace, almost surprised that he was taller than she, and then lifted her off her feet.

''I was so afraid for thee!'' he said. ''I was sure thou wouldst die.'' Setting her down, he looked at her closely.

''I know lord Círdan told thee not to come to me.'' She smiled faintly. ''Well, my lord Elrond Eärendilion, the time is past when I could lift _thee_ up. Come, sit down.'' She poured wine and he laughed, relieved.

''It seems like an Age ago.''

''It _was_ another Age. That world has ended.'' Her expression was warmly sympathetic. ''Thy path must be a stony one, bearing the blood of Elf and Mortal.''

The light faded from his face. He shook his head, and Fanari murmured: ''With all that has come to pass, I do not wish to add to thy griefs. This is not for me, but because soon some-one I love will also have to bear the burden of his blood.'' A breath of air ran in from the sea, it whispered through the room and into it she said:  
''His name is Tindómion Maglorion - and he is my son.''

~~~

The wind had risen. It was changeable in the spring, squalls sweeping in from the south, and racing clouds scattered sunlight across the waters of the firth. The water was dull steel in shadow, turquoise where the sun fell.

"It will be impossible to conceal who his father is. Already people speak of his face, the color of his hair." Fanari's eyes watched the spears of slanting silver rain. "But thou wert close to Maglor in the last years. I hope thou wilt stand Tindómion's friend. I will go to the high king and speak before his court and ask that my son take service with him." There was a question in her voice, but Elrond said:  
''Gil-galad will accept him. They are kin. And I would stand thy son's friend, willingly. But it will not be easy for him.''

''I know.''

''Or for thee.''

''I wanted to bear Maglor's child,'' she said simply. ' And I will never regret it.''

''I will go with thee to the king.'' He took her hand.

  
***

  
Any of his subjects might seek audience with Gil-galad, or come before him in his Great Hall when he held open court. There were always many in attendance, and this was how Fanari wished it to be, how it _ must_ be, yet her heart pounded as she waited. Elrond had escorted her here, but it was she who would speak to the high king before his court.

Save for Círdan, and now, Elrond, Gil-galad was the only other person to know the identity of Tindómion's father, but he had respected her desire for privacy as the child grew. In the years of the War of Wrath and after, the bitterness against the House of Fëanor was intense, and Gil-galad wished to spare Fanari and Tindómion the whispers. But he could not command the tongues of the people to be silent, and the tall young man with the flaunting bronze hair, and fierce silver eyes gathered rumors as a flower draws bees.

Fanari was silent on the subject, and kept herself apart. Gil-galad had arranged for a skilled weapons teacher to train Tindómion privately so that he might not be subjected to questions which he could not answer and would discomfit him. He himself had only glimpsed Maglor's son once, as a child, before the War of Wrath, and would have willingly welcomed he and Fanari into his household, but a court where his mother Rosriel wielded so much influence was no place for a misbegotten Fëanorion. Fanari was right to spare the child that. And the Elves of Middle-earth had good reason for their enmity against the House of Fëanor.

Yet now the time had come. When her name was announced the high king rose and extended his hand. Rosriel, seated lower on the dais, narrowed her eyes in speculation. The Gondolindrim relict wore white embroidered with gold, the colours of her House, and a plain silver band set with one pearl held back her hair. It was known that all she owned or wore was due to the generosity of Círdan. But withal. Fanari held herself tall and proud as she walked to the dais and bowed her head. She looked like a queen, and her eyes had seen kingdoms fall.

''Thou art welcome here, Lady.'' Gil-galad returned her salutation. ''If it is within our power to grant thee aid or council, we will do so. Speak freely, I pray thee.''

''I thank thee, sire,'' she said. ''Thou art gracious. I come not for myself but for another, one whom I hope thou wilt take into thy service.'' Her shoulders seemed to stiffen before the next words, and her voice was pitched more loudly, ringing under the great roof. ''I have a son who is now threescore and ten years of age. I have never spoken the name of his father – until now."

Gil-galad half-saw his mother lean forward, beringed hands tightening on the arms of the chair. Her gaze was avid with curiosity and beside her, tall Erestor, and his friend, another Gondolindrim survivor, Borniven, watched with a look of disdain.

''My son's name is Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion.'' Fanari set the words down precisely as stones on the floor.

The hall became a hum of voices which whispered and murmured from the pillars. They swirled like a smashed hive of bees around Fanari who stood motionless, chin lifted. Twin banners of color flew on her cheekbones.

''It is not surprising that thou hast not revealed this before now,'' Rosriel said. ''Thou art not the wife of that accursed kinslayer, art thou? Or is there something else we should know?''  
The tone of silken spite brought Gil-galad's hand up as if to silence her, but Fanari looked at Rosriel and her answer was tinged with wry amusement.  
''According to our laws am I not his wife, Lady? He was the first man to lie with me. But no,'' she went on. ''Maglor Fëanorion does not know his son exists. Tindómion was begot at the sack of the Havens.''

''It is true. Maglor knew naught of his having engendered a child,'' Elrond confirmed.

''While the Kinslayers slew and burned thou didst offer thyself to one of them to save thy life?'' That was Borniven. Gil-galad threw him a look which made him step back.

"It is my son I speak of now, not of that time," Fanari said. "Tindómion bears his father's face as if molded by one hand from the same clay." And there was no mistaking the pride in her voice.

''I heard the rumor of rape. I did not believe it,'' Rosriel murmured. ''Thou wouldst have died.''

Elrond glanced at her. The king could see he was torn between telling what he knew and further besmirching Maglor's name. He said uncomfortably: ''It was not an act of love. Howbeit, the Lady Fanari lives, and her son is grown to manhood.''

''And I will take him into my service.''

Rosriel's head snapped around. Her lips pressed together. ''Kinslayer blood?'' she demanded.

''Is not Celebrimbor the son of Curufin?'' her son asked.

''He repudiated his father, his uncles, and has never lifted a hand against his own kin.''

''He is also the son of a Kinslayer,'' Gil-galad said. ''And he is welcome in Lindon.'' He saw Elrond nod. Rosriel drew in a breath and he continued: ''And what harm has Tindómion Maglorion ever done to any of _his_ kin? We will greet him in kinship and love, Lady Fanari. Let him come and present himself to us.''

At that and the gentleness of the answer, her eyes misted but she collected herself and her reverence was deep as she said: ''I thank thee, sire. For my son, I thank thee.''

  
***

  
Fanari almost shook with relief as Elrond lead her from the Great Hall. Her son needed this service. Unmoored, he would search for Maglor and doubtless try to kill him. All the fire and passion he had inherited from the House of Fëanor had become focused into fury against his father. His temper needed to be redirected, the raw metal of what he was honed like a fine sword.  
Who better to hone it than his kinsman, Gil-galad?  
And, as Fanari had guessed, Tindómion was incensed when he learned that she had gone to the high King on his behalf. He felt it made him seem cowardly, and determined not to like Gil-galad, to give him only grudging service.  
He was also embarrassed. He had all the pride of his bloodline, and if he needs must go before the High King he desired to be accoutered as fine as a Lord. He wondered if his mother would understand that he had no armor against his name and its shame but what he could clothe himself with.

"I cannot present myself to the High King as I would, mother." His anger was colored all through with embarrassment. "We live here by the goodwill of Lord Círdan, and he has been most gracious, but to go before Gil-galad I must have armor, garments, weapons, horses, and we..."

Fanari nodded. ''This is not Gondolin, my dear. If thou wert Lord of the Pillar and the Tower of Snow thou wouldst go before Gil-galad with a thousand knights.''

They were not poor. Few Elves would see another lack for anything, but Penlod had been one of the Lords of Gondolin, his House stupendously wealthy, and those riches lay burned and buried by the sigh of the sea.

''Yet a prince thou art, of the greatest and proudest House of the Noldor, and I will not see thee indigent.'' Her eyes moved beyond him. ''It was _Tarnin Austa._ Colored lights were in the trees and silver lanterns in the streets. Music everywhere, and all were arrayed for festival.'' There was an expression on her face which brought sorrow welling up within Tindómion. She held out her hand. ''Come with me.''

She lead him up the stairs into her bedchamber, and took a small key from where it hung at her girdle. Picking up a casket of pale wood she unlocked it and turned back the lid. Tindómion was familiar with it from childhood but he had never seen her open it.

''There were other things. A diadem, which was lost, a girdle also. But the clasps on these did not break or open. I offered them to Círdan, but he said I should keep them. For this time, I think.''

She lifted out a great collar in the colors of her house. Like lace-work it was, and on each link was a flower of diamond and emerald. So cunningly was it wrought that it would drape the throat, shoulders and back like a cloak, and long lappets hung to the feet. It flashed and sparkled in the pale light and sang softly as water running over stone. Each gem was minutely faceted, and the flight from Gondolin, the struggle in the wilderness, had not marred its beauty.

''It _was_ damaged.'' His mother seemed to read his thoughts. ''Gold is soft, after all, though the jewels are not. Here and here, I think.'' She pointed. ''Círdan took it to a jewel-smith, and it was mended.''

Laying it on the bed, she opened a leather pouch and drew out two bracelets which would clasp the forearms. They were like to a warrior's vambraces and reached almost to the elbow but their beauty was designed for a woman: twining, exuberant flower patterns, the stones as brilliant as those of the collar.

''I will have Círdan take them to a Goldsmith. The stones are very fine.''

''No, mother!'' Tindómion's was indignant and mortified. ''They are all that remain of Gondolin. I would rather go before the High King in rags !''

"Well so would I _not,_" his mother retorted. "I have memories which are worth more than gold. Thou shalt stand before Gil-galad as a Fëanorion, a Prince of the Noldor!"

He turned his face away and a muscle in his jaw clenched. She carefully wrapped the jewelry and laid it back in the chest.

  
***

  
''This was unnecessary, Fanari,'' Círdan told her. ''I would have seen him mounted and shod.''

''I know, my friend,'' she replied. ''But it seems fitting that they be used for this. My father would have wished it - and the glorious dead.''

~~~

''And this banner?'' Tindómion demanded. ''Why not thine own house? Why this?''  
He gestured at the long pennon that streamed across the floor, threads of gold and silver worked in it by the skilled fingers of his mother and her hand-maid. Its colors were a rich poppy-red and speedwell blue, the embroidery silver and gold. Fiery flowers dotted the back-cloth and set among them were harps, each with three clear crystals down their strings.

''I made one like this in Gondolin long ago, a great tapestry,'' she replied. ''I did not know why then, but it was a presentiment of the banner Maglor's son would bear.''

Her son turned away, leaned his brow against the cool stone.  
''I will not dispute with thee," he said. "There is no time. I am sorry. It is beautiful, I just...cannot _understand_ thee, mother.''

''Thou wilt, one day,'' she smiled. 'Come then, let us prepare thee.''

~~~

When she watched him ride away, she quivered as like a harp-string, her hands clasping her throat. He carried more than he knew, and none of it in his accouterments. What he bore was beyond price. In him, the House of Fëanor came out of the hissing shadows and burned again.

_And it will never die,_ she thought.  
~~~

  
Tindómion had no esquire to lead a spare horse or tend to his gear, none who owned him lordship, no knights to bring to the service of the high king, only himself. The Great Hall seemed very full of people as he heard the herald announce him. Taking a deep breath, he strode forward.

He was richly dressed, but wore no jewel save a brooch on which glittered the silver emblem of a harp laid across the flaming flower of the House of Fëanor. It caught the infalling sunlight in flashes of ruby and diamond, and the low murmurs of conversation, the soft playing of music faded. The high king turned.

Tindómion had seen Gil-galad only once. He had been very young. Now he stared.

A river of obsidian hair fell heavily to Gil-galad's thighs, drawn back in triple braiding and wound with gold thread. He was very tall, wide shouldered and long legged in deep blue and silver. He looked what he was: the high king, son of Fingon the Valiant, grandson of Fingolfin. Under gull-wing brows that followed the bone above his eyes, the eyes themselves were blue-white as Helluin dazzling in a midwinter sky.

''Tindómion Maglorion.'' The clear voice spoke into a pregnant silence, and the murmurs which arose were instantly quashed by a brief, flashing glance. Tindómion felt the burn of heat in his cheeks as he went down on one knee.  
''I knew thy father," Gil-galad said. "And I grieve for him.''

Looking up, Tindómion saw sadness in the luminous face, Without consulting his chagrin, his embarrassment or his pride, he spoke impulsively, the first words that formed on his lips.  
''Sire, I would offer thee my fealty, my sword, my body, and all my service.''

The weight of the stares upon him became heavier, but he found himself held by the King's gaze as a hand came down on his shoulder.

''I accept it gladly, son of Macalaurë Fëanárion.''

The hands clasped his and raised him. There was the scent of rosewood as firm lips touched his cheeks, left and right, then his brow and lips in acknowledgment of kinship. A frisson of – surely – relief, swept through Tindómion. For the first time the guarded composure of his face relaxed.

''My thanks, sire,'' he said. ''I am honored.''

''I hope thou wilt be my friend Tindómion. Come, sit with me. Thou art a Knight Companion now, for I name thee such, and thou shalt dwell in the palace close to me.''

He gestured toward the doors which lead to the feast hall, and the court silently passed into a room just as large, set with tables and seats. On a dais, a long board held decanters of wine and goblets.

''Come.''

Tindómion looked aside in surprise as Gil-galad guided him to a chair upon his immediate left. The guests sat, and servers came, pouring wine and laying out trays of food.

''So thou art the son of Maglor?'' asked the lady seated to the right of the King. Her face held a strange expression.

''My mother, Lady Rosriel.'' Gil-galad said.

''I am honored, my lady.'' Tindómion sensed the antipathy. Something within him tightened.

''My son does indeed honor thee.'' Rosriel turned away and Tindómion met Gil-galad's eyes briefly, felt a hand touch his arm in reassurance.

''Thy father was a friend to mine and to me, and we are kin, thus I welcome thee and embrace thee with love.'' His voice sounded resonantly against the pillars, and he lifted his gemmed goblet and proferred it. Tindómion hesitated and felt a boot nudge his leg under the table. Elrond raised his brows. Understanding, Tindómion slowly took the cup, bent his head and drank, the wine soothing his dry throat. Oddly exhilarated, he handed the goblet back to his king and Gil-galad sipped. Over the gemmed rim, star-blue eyes held silver. ~

~~~

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tindómion (Cherif Fortin)from an old site.  
> Gil-galad art Angelsaint11, hair and eye colour photoshop.


	27. My Fealty And All My Service

** "My Fealty And All My Service." **

Tindómion paused to collect himself before he entered the room. He could sense his mother's presence beyond the door, her anticipation. He had gone to the palace defiant, almost belligerent, ready to be displeased, to face antagonism or worse, pity. Riding back, he was filled with elation that he had comported himself well. It had, he could admit to himself now, been something he had dreaded.  
  
Opening the door quietly, he went in.  
  
A small lamp was burning. Fanari was sitting near it, one of his riding gauntlets on her lap, hands idle, as if she had not been able to concentrate on it. She came to her feet as he entered, and he crossed to her, drawing her into an exuberant embrace.  
  
''The High King has made me one of his Knight-Companions,'' he said, and watched the trepidation melt out of her face. ''And I am honored to be chosen.''  
  
She threw her arms around him again, and he felt the hard pound of her heart. Then she drew back, looked into his eyes.  
  
''I think thou wilt be friends,'' she smiled.  
  
''I do not know. Perhaps.'' He unloosed his cloak, laid it over the back of the settle. The great brooch-pin blazed as the lamplight caught it.  
''The king greeted me with the kiss of kinship. I dined at the high table beside him.'' Tindómion was still overwhelmed. The wariness and mistrust on the faces of the majority had been rendered insignificant by Gil-galad's welcome.  
  
''Mother?''  
  
She looked up from pouring wine.  
  
''I am sorry for how I have behaved. The truth is, I was...afraid.''  
  
''I know.'' She handed him the goblet. ''So was I, but I was not afraid that the King would not accept thee. His father was close to Maedhros, and was a friend of Maglor's. I do not think that he would reject thee for thy blood. They say that he wept when he learned of Maedhros' death.'' The light faded from her face.  
  
Tindómion sipped the wine, and thought of drinking from the High King's goblet, the lucent eyes holding his over the rim.  
''He has asked me to remove to the palace, to dwell there.'' He was conflicted, proud but afraid to hurt her feelings.  
  
''Of course.''  
  
''Thou wilt not mind?''  
  
The light caught the glimmer in her eyes as she said softly: ''Tindómion, this is what I have hoped for.''  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Fanari felt as if she had raised a young eaglet and now released it to fly free. She was too wise to believe Tindómion's new life would be easy, and pondered much on Rosriel. The antipathy she heard in the queen-mother's voice was not, she thought, directed at herself, bur rather provoked by her connection with the Fëanorions.  
  
Fanari had often wondered about Rosriel. But, sequestered in Gondolin, she knew no details of the marriage, only that when Fingon had died he had left a son too young to assume the mantle of Kingship, which had devolved onto Turgon. She thought, as she finished her son's soft leather glove, of Maedhros' face at the Havens, and believed that Fingon's death had ended his world. He looked as a man will look when only an oath binds him to bitter life.  
  
And Rosriel loathed the House of Fëanor.  
  
_She knew about their relationship,_ she realized. _ And detested it - but whom would not? _ She tried to envisage herself as married to Maglor and his loving another, and a man at that.  
The hate had festered within Rosriel, and no matter how understandable, Fanari did not wish to see it spill over onto her son. And it would. Gil-galad had greeted Tindómion as kin, shown him great honor by word and deed.  
Fanari could not save her son the trials which would come. He would not want her to. She had let him go, and the feeling was both one of pride and, because she loved him, a little sadness. But she had been prepared for that. She had always been sure where her son's destiny lay.  
  
She and her hand-maid had sewn tunics, cloaks, breeches, shirts, she had boots of the finest doeskin made for him. In Gil-galad's court, until he became established, Tindómion needed to look what he was: A Fëanorian prince. When she watched him as he mounted his horse to leave the house her heart ached with pride.  
  
''Go well, son of Maglor,'' she whispered, holding her head high so that he would see her glad and smiling. _ Thy father would be proud of thee._  
The old sorrow touched her heart, closed her throat. She lifted her hand as he rode away.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The covered cart bearing his belongings rumbled up the paved track which swooped upward and inland. The Noldor ever paved the routes they used regularly, avoiding the mires of mud which were formed by hooves and wheels during the autumn and winter.  
  
Soon Harlond was hidden by a green fold of the hills, and in the distance green-flanked mountains hunched against the spring sky. Flocks of sheep cropped the grass and plovers called, high and lonely. In the distance, the scar of one of the quarries showed white as salt, and here and there villas raised graceful walls.  
  
Elrond rode to meet him. He was smiling as he drew his mount alongside and reached out to clasp wrists.  
  
''Thy chambers are prepared for thee, I am to conduct thee, Tindómion.''  
  
''That was kind in thee.'' He hesitated, hating to admit his relief that some-one had come to greet him. ''Lord Elrond, what I must do, as a Companion?''  
  
Elrond smiled. ''Call me Elrond, please. I am a companion also, and well-nigh as new to it as thou art, for I have been in Númenor. A Companion is both a warrior and a friend to his lord. Although the War ended Morgoth it did not end all evil. There are far off lands where Men still worship the Dark.  
"We are a young realm and at peace, yet still the warriors train and compete, lest the future bring war again." He looked ahead for a long moment and then continued: ''Gil-galad bears the weight of a great and sorrowful heritage, as so many of us do. And rulership imposes isolation upon one, be they never so loved. Canst thou play the harp?''  
  
Tindómion hesitated and flushed. His answer sounded like an admittance of guilt.  
''Yes.''  
  
''Maglor's music could break the heart, or heal it,'' Elrond murmured. ''Thou art so like him, save for thy hair. It is a strange feeling to be riding next to thee. I cannot stop thinking of his fate and then I look at thee and thou might be him. He was kind to my brother and I.''  
  
''Please!'' The exclamation came more sharply than Tindómion intended. ''I do not wish to hear of him. Not now. Forgive me, I know thou hast lost both thy parents and I am beyond glad that thou wert well treated. But please, I do not wish to hear of my...of him.''  
  
There was a long silence. Tindómion looked aside at Elrond and saw the sympathy in his eyes.  
  
"I understand. Yet if thou wouldst hear one day, I will gladly tell thee." Elrond paused, gazing at him. "Gil-galad loved Maedhros and Maglor, Caranthir too, when he was young. In a way, thou art one of them returned to him. And he will be glad to hear that thou art a harpist.'' He touched his heels to the horses side. ''He needs friends, Tindómion. And that is what his companions are; they serve him, yes, would fight beside him and die for him, but they also hunt and hawk with him, spar with him, speak with him and ease his heart. I hope thou and I will both do that.''  
  
''I would like to be his friend,'' Tindómion spoke more quietly. "But surely he has many."  
  
''A king rarely has many, I think. It is a consequence of their position.'' Elrond's look summed him again, from head to heels. ''There are factions in any court. I saw it begin with my brother in Númenor. I saw it when I was with Maedhros and Maglor. I see it here. Thou wilt already have guessed that the Lady Rosriel has no love for thy bloodline.''  
  
Tindómion said, rather stiffly: ''The Oath of Fëanor has touched us all. One cannot blame her.'' But the words held a defensiveness which brought a faint smile to Elrond's lips. Clearly Tindómion hated his father. Equally and illogically, he did not like it when he was traduced. It was Fëanorean loyalty, whether Tindómion was aware of it or not; instinctive and passionate.  
  
''It certainly touched my brother and I and yet we also loved those who were our captors. They could have been cruel. They were not. They suffered for their acts.''  
  
Fanari had said the same and Tindómion's face hardened.  
  
''I tell thee this only to prepare thee. Gil-galad's mother bears a deep and bitter hatred.'' Elrond believed he knew why. He could hardly have lived many years with the last surviving Fëanorions without coming to realize what kind of love Maedhros had felt for his cousin.  
'There are two Lords close to her - Erestor and Borniven. They will not stand thy friends.'' He smiled. ''But I will. And so will the High King.''  
  
  
***  
  
  
The chambers faced south and were filled with sunlight. They were richer than Tindómiom was accustomed to, and he was surprised at their grandeur. Embroidered hangings draped the walls and thick rugs covered the floor. There were three rooms, and in the largest cushioned chairs and settles were placed about a low table. A door opened to the bed and bathing chamber. The colours were rich and warm: poppy-red, gamboge, with thread-work in silver and gold.  
  
''Gil-galad wished me to show thee about the palace,'' Elrond said. ''Shall we have some wine first?''  
  
The palace was much more than a residence, Tindómion saw.  
When he had presented himself to the high king he had been lead straight to the Great Hall. Behind this was well nigh a city. There were forges, bake-houses, weaving rooms, granaries, workshops for leather-crafts and fletchers, breweries, ice-houses, stables and smithies, presses for flax oil. All were connected by paved ways, the spaces between them lined with trees and fountains.  
Further back from all this industry Elrond showed him the tilt-yard, the grounds where the warriors sparred and there was a great meadow surrounded by an oval track for racing and sports.  
  
''Gil-galad chose one of his own men to train thee, I believe?''  
  
''I did not know the King had sent him,'' Tindómion said. ''I wanted to go to war. I was too young, of course.''  
  
''Thou wilt see the king here often. He spars with the warriors and throws _ Aeglos,_ his great spear. They say none can throw it so far or so accurately as he.''  
  
Within the palace, Tindómion was shown the great library.  
  
''Any-one may come here, but the Master of the Archives is very protective.'' Elrond laughed softly. ''It is Gil-galad's wish to preserve the history and lore of the last Age and Valinor here on Middle-earth.'' He kept his voice low until they were outside. ''I am sure thy belongings will be unpacked by now, there is time to bathe and change before the evening feast and on the morrow thou wilt be formally presented with thy sword and arms and made a companion.''  
  
It was a very great deal to take in. Tindómion would have given much to simply sit in his chambers and absorb all he had seen, but had not glimpsed the king yet and he wanted to, perhaps to confirm the acceptance he had seen in those star-blue eyes.  
  
''I will need a map to find my way around,'' he exclaimed. Elrond smiled.  
  
''I thought the same but it is not so confusing as it appears, much is designed in tripartite patterns as thou canst see, and any-one will direct thee. Come, lead me to thy chambers from here. They are on the south side, not far from the King's.''  
  
Tindómion turned left, and after a time found himself at the foot of a sweeping flight of stairs. They took him up two levels to a corridor banked by windows, and to his rooms.  
They were silent now, the servants having departed. His armor hung on a stand, his clothes were in chests and his harp in his bedchamber. He felt a yearning to sit down and let his nervous tension flow from him in music, but a glance at the water-clock showed him that he had less than an hour before the evening meal.  
  
''I must hurry,'' he said.  
  
''Thou wilt be appointed a manservant by the castellan,'' Elrond said. ''I will return and accompany thee when I have readied myself.''  
  
Alone, Tindómion strode into the bathing chamber, lifting the levers which released hot and cold water from the pipes and stood under them while he lathered his body and hair with soft soap. His hair would still be wet, but no matter. The lack of a servant did not trouble him, for he was used to seeing to himself. When Elrond returned he was dressed in a tunic of wine-red over black breeches and boots, his hair drawn back in three braids. He offered a smile which did not conceal his nerves and asked if he were presentable.  
  
''It will do, I suppose,'' Elrond said, straight-faced, though there was an odd expression in his eyes. Then he laughed and slapped Tindómion's back. ''Magnificent. Come.''  
  
The king was not yet at his place, but the household was drifting in, talking in low tones, some laughing, others with their heads together in conversation.  
  
''Here.'' Tindómion was lead to the dais. He sat carefully until the people rose at the entrance of the High King.  
  
When he realized that Gil-galad was going to sit on his right, Tindómion flushed to his hairline. Kinship or no, he burned under the scrutiny of an hundred pairs of eyes that regarded him with expressions ranging from curiosity to coldness.  
  
''Tindómion Maglorion.'' The king's voice was warm. ''Has Elrond been a good guide?''  
  
''Sire, he has. I thank thee.'' He bowed to Rosriel, who inclined her head. ''Lady.''  
  
The high king nodded and turned to the hall.  
''Let us give thanks to the One for this day, for our lives in fair Lindon, and for the gift of Middle-earth and all its beauties and wonders.'' Those gathered bent their heads and then sat as the servers brought food.  
  
Tindómion had no appetite. He barely tasted the food on his plate as he listened to Gil-galad speak of the palace and the household. He had already gathered there was more to kingship than a noble bloodline.  
  
''My father always knew what was happening in his realm, what we needed through trade and what others needed from us. This is a strange, new time. The lands to the east are wild and peopled with men who followed Morgoth, although there are Dwarves in their ancient hold of Hadhodrond in Towers of Mist who we trade with, for _ Mithril. _ But Lindon must be sufficient unto itself, Tindómion.''  
  
At the end of the meal a harpist came forward and played, and after, Gil-galad said: ''I understand that thou art a harpist?''  
  
''I can play, yes, but I am still learning, Sire.''  
  
''I would like to hear thee.''  
  
''I have only ever played to my mother or Círdan...but of course.''  
  
''Privately, then?'' The king smiled as the chamber emptied, the Elves going into the gardens or their rooms.  
  
Tindómion inclined his head, hoping to hide the color in his cheeks.  
"Of course, Sire, if thou wilt have patience with a novice."  
  
  
***  
  
  
It was strange not to wake to the sound of the sea. Too nerve-wracked to sleep until dawn, Tindómion blinked and hurled himself from his bed to prepare for his formal presentation.  
  
The ceremony was attended only by the king and his companions, although if there had been a queen, he understood, she would have been present. Elrond had told him what to expect, and he hoped he was ready. He must go before the high king naked, and although he had never been troubled by nudity before, he was uncomfortable with the thought today.  
  
_"We go before him with naught but ourselves, and offer him everything," _ Elrond had said.  
  
The doors opened and Tindómion entered, passing through a double file of warriors in full panoply whose great-swords formed a steel arch above his head. Gil-galad stood beside his throne and Elrond with him. Beside them waited the gear which the new knight would wear.  
  
It was the longest walk of Tindómion's life. Heat blazed in his cheeks. It was only with supreme effort that he maintained a dignified pace until he reached the dais. There, he went down on one knee and bowed his head. Warm hands rested on his shoulders, and he was drawn to his feet.  
  
''Tindómion Maglorion, today thou wilt join the Knight-Companions of Lindon. Wilt thou serve the House of Fingolfin and thy King with all thy loyalty, with thy courage, with sword, and wit and wisdom, with temperance and valor? Wilt thou be both sword-brother and counselor and friend to thy liege lord in peace and in war, for all thy days on Middle-earth?''  
  
''I, Tindómion Maglorion do so swear, sire.'' His voice shook a little. ''My fealty and all my service is thine, Gil-galad of House Fingolfin, from now until the day of my death.''  
  
"Or mine," Gil-galad said, quite softly.  
  
Elrond drew a white tunic over his head. Over it went the mail which covered him from throat to feet. He lowered the cuirass to rest on Tindómion's shoulders. The silver steel was incised by his own insignia and the plume of the helm was deep red. Tooled leather boots were slipped over his calves and the leaf-shaped shield slid onto his arm. He felt considerably more relaxed now that he was no longer naked. A red cloak was draped from his shoulders, and then Gil-galad lifted a sword.  
It was not Tindómion's own. This was longer, more finely forged, and the Fëanorian script caught the light like water.  
  
_ I am Gurthdur, the death of the Dark, blade of Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion. _  
  
One great ruby was set into the pommel, carved in the design of his house. Gil-galad held it out across his palms.  
  
''Take this sword my friend. Prince of the House of Fëanor.''  
  
Tindómion's fingers closed about the hilt. He swept it diagonally up and then down, feeling the balance, the power of the steel. He raised it to his lips, kissed the cold metal and lowered it again. His lineage had been acknowledged by the High King, before witnesses.  
Gil-galad stepped forward, touched his lips to Tindómion's brow and then his mouth. They burned like a smooth flame.  
  
''I accept thy fealty, Tindómion, son of Maglor. Be thou welcome among my companions.''  
  
And his smile made all else in the room grow dim. ~  
  
  
  
~~~


	28. The Testing Of Courage.

** The Testing Of Courage **

~ He knew the call would come.  
He tried to resist it. He had known freedom. It had opened his soul to hope and beauty, intoxicated him like a man's first taste of wine. And so he ignored the beguiling invitations which became stronger until persuasion was abdicated for force, and the pain came, its spikes driving through his nerves. When it ended every muscle was clenched, his head throbbed, and his muscles ached as if he had been stretched upon a rack.

_Come to me._

The feeling of a more powerful mind in one's own was in some ways worse than physical rape. One could not flee from it or hide from it.

_Thou art bound to me, and thou knowest it. Come my son, we have much to do. _

''I am summoned,'' he told the chieftain of the Wolves.

''Are we also summoned, Lord?'' The man looked at his encampment: the green palms about the oasis, the flocks of goats and the tents, the robed women whose hips swayed as they walked, balancing clay jars upon their heads. ''We do not wish to go back.''

''No.''

''We will serve _you,_ lord,'' the chieftain said. ''if there is need, You brought us into strange lands, but we have prospered, and you have ever looked to our wellbeing. For that, you have our loyalty.''

''I thank thee, Rahdeer.'' Vanimórë inclined his head. ''I know freedom is more precious than gold. To both of us. Remain here, continue to prosper and grow.''

~~~

He left that night, travelling north, the dunes and salt pans fading gradually into arid, stony land. The sun was pitiless, but he walked on alone his long stride eating up the leagues.

Dark mountains bit at the horizon. At first they marched eastward with him, then veered north, failed and gathered themselves again, clawing upward ashen and grey. To the east, the land undulated away in steppes and the wind, as the autumn faded into winter, held an edge like the bite of a blade.  
Snow began to fall, spitting across the grasslands hard as grains of sand under a sky like an iron lid. It was impossible to light a fire, the perpetual wind quenched the flames before they could take hold. Vanimórë cursed, shrugged and did not linger, walking on as if challenging the one who waited for him.

The tribesmen must have seen his dark figure against the white land when the first snows ceased. He was aware of them as they galloped toward him, one group veering behind him to cut off escape. He did not stop until the riders formed a ring about him on their shaggy, tough little horses. The men were whipcord-lean, wearing furs against the chill, and their eyes slanted, dark as chips of mica in hard, weathered faces.

One of them moved forward.

''Who are you? You cross the lands of the _Taina_ marked as a _Kullani._'' The leader jerked his chin. ''Do you challenge us, fool?''

''I challenge no-one. And I am not _Kullani._'' the long veil concealed Vanimórë's features, but the cloak had been cast back by the wind and he realized that the men had seen his tattoos. Since the War of Wrath many of the Men who had served Morgoth had dispersed into the east. Clearly there was strife between the tribes.

''You bear their markings.''

''I travel. I am of no tribe. I do not intend to hunt in thy lands.''

''Your life is forfeit. The penalty for our enemies is death. All men know this.''

''Yes, I was afraid that would be the answer. It always seems to be. Shall we deal together? You will not..._ try _ to kill me and I shall not kill all of you?'' Vanimórë began walking straight toward the leader.

''Very amusing. There are ten of us, or can you not count?'' With a harsh ring, the man drew his sword and grinned. ''We will roast your fruits between your legs tonight, and your soul will serve our ancestors in the Dark Land for all eternity.''

''A wager?'' Vanimórë suggested.

The only survivor would later swear that the stranger they met that day was a demon. Young Budin never saw him move, never saw the hurled knife which entered Kacthi's throat. Twin swords flashed out. As the riders charged, Vanimórë somersaulted. There was a blur and two riders sagged from their horses backs, blood pluming from the stumps of their necks.

''Now there are seven,'' he said.  
He spun, one scimitar flashing up reflexively to catch the hand axe which descended toward him. His free sword took the rider through the gut.

There was a long scream as one of the men launched himself from his mount, and both he and Vanimórë went down. The warrior raised a dirk to plunge it into the unarmed back, and Vanimórë threw himself up onto his feet so that the man was hurled aside. A boot stamped down and crushed his nose.  
A horse reared over him, came down to ramp and kill. He caught the forelegs and heaved it aside, it rolled, the rider hurling himself clear in a skilled move, but he came up into a flying kick which snapped his neck. Vanimórë jumped, landing behind another and breaking his neck.

Budin, the youngest, fled, panic and fear a soundless scream in his throat. It was only a league away that he slowed and realized he was not being followed.

''Fools.''

Vanimórë liberated dried meat and a skin of fermented mares milk. He drank, cleaned his swords and walked away. His wounds stung in the cold. The one on the back of his thigh he bandaged with a strip of cloth torn from his cloak. It slowed him, causing a limp until it began to heal.

Behind him, the snow slowly covered the place of slaughter in a patina of immaculate white.

Winter deepened. The presence in his mind grew stronger, and exuded satisfaction and eagerness. Vanimórë did not admit that he hoped that with Morgoth gone, his relationship with Sauron would be somehow changed.

The perimeter guards were expecting him.

~~~

The pavilion was as luxuriously appointed. Furs covered the floor and braziers burned sweet herbs. Sauron wore a dark robe belted with links of silver. Long, pale hair was was caught back in intricate designs over his skull. His eyes were fierce with anticipation.

The flap fell behind Vanimórë. In the warmth of the tent the snow began to melt, clinging in crystals to his hair. Marked by the long travel, clothes stained by blood, he was still the most magnificent thing Sauron had beheld since Melkor's unfallen glory.

''Thou wert laggardly.''

''I was in the south, my lord.'' Vanimórë unpinned his cloak, waited like a soldier at attention as his father delicately probed his mind – he could be subtle when he wished, but swords were not forged by kindness.

''Pour wine.'' Sauron tilted his head, his eyes never leaving his son. He bore himself as arrogantly as a Noldo prince. He always had. 

Sauron could see deeper.

And there it was: the need to be loved.

Vanimórë was openly delighted at Melkor's demise, and it was true that his ambitions and Sauron's did not run in harness. Sauron desired rule and order, Melkor had wanted Nothing. He had desired to destroy all he could not control.

Howbeit, Sauron was Melkor's, and had been since he had made the choice to follow him. Yet it had been Sauron who suggested this plan long ago, lest aught go amiss. So he said, and it had taken much persuasion for Melkor to agree to participate in it.

This plan.

Vanimórë.

Another defining moment of Vanimórë's life, this choice to be a son whom - if not loved - was at least more than a slave.

As Sauron disrobed them both he felt his son respond. It did not matter to him that his own father touched him with hunger. He would accept any demonstration of love at all.

Ah, Vanimórë was splendid. Even he was not immune to his son's magnetism. He had only known rape, so Sauron did not deliberately cause him pain. Nor did he give him pleasure. Vanimórë was too braced against abuse to relax, but he quivered as if he longed to be brought to release, his breathing hitched in his throat.

''So what will it be, Vanimórë?'' Sauron whispered. ''I will give thee command of my armies, thou wilt have power, cities under thy hand, riches, all that thou dost desire. No more slavery, no more abuse.''

And he waited. The violet eyes opened. For a heartbeat they were naked with a need to be loved.

Sauron watched impassively as the memories surfaced: Angband, the Throne Hall, Melkor forcing himself deep into the virgin body, lubricating his possession with blood. He heard again the desperate cry before it changed to screams of agony:  
_ "Father! Help me!"_

The first and last time Vanimórë had ever pleaded for help.

The remembrance hardened the eyes into gems. The hope died.

''I begged thee to help me! I slew my sister to save her from Morgoth! I will _never_ forgive thee! _I will always fight thee! _''

And his punch took Sauron straight across his jaw, whipping his head sideways.

A thin rill of blood trailed down the side of his mouth as Sauron slowly turned his head back to his son. Only Melkor could have recognized the look in his eyes.

''Thou hast chosen. So be it.'' He took a handful of the raven hair and pulled the beautiful, wrathful face closer.

''Thou canst not escape me. I sired thee. Thou are tethered to me with bonds that can never be broken. A warrior thou art but in power thou canst not match me, remember that well. In death thy soul will be called to the Void, and there is no escape from that. There are greater torments than that of the body. Melkor can torture thy soul for eternity, and there will be _ nowhere _ for thee to hide.''

He watched hatred blast into the great eyes.  
''Oh, thou wilt have my _service _, my lord.'' Each word was cold as the snow which hissed against the walls of the tent.

''Yes, I will, body and soul. And it will never be as it was this night.'' Sauron released the thick hair and smiled like iron.

  
~~~

  
** Lindon.**

''So it is a tradition?'' Tindómion asked.

''It has become so among the Companions of the King,'' Elrond said. ''Do not be concerned. It is merely what Men might call a rite of passage.''

Thoughts flew about in the Fëanorion's mind like birds startled up from roosting.  
''Thou sayest not to be concerned, and that troubles me. Thou art laughing.''

''Not at thee. This is how it began, before I came here.'' Elrond walked to the balcony. ''Gil-galad chooses his Knight-Companions. Noble blood alone will not gain one a place. Hinivon is the son of a fletcher, but he is well loved, as is Vórimóro, whose father is a leather-worker. Both are fine warriors. But Erestor and Borniven both requested that they be made Companions and the queen-mother mother added her voice.''

''Neither of them are Companions,'' Tindómion remarked.

"No, although Erestor could be. He has a keen mind, and is a valuable voice in any council, but he does not favor martial pursuits. He could be a fine warrior if he wished, but..." Elrond shrugged as if unwilling to say more. "Thou wilt note that all those chosen are not warriors alone but skilled in many things. But no-one forgets Morgoth or the Wars of Beleriand." He looked northward, his profile hard as stone. "I have foresight. It is a curse at times. I do not think all evil is ended."

From somewhere the notes of a flute sounded and an woman's joined it in a song of summer rain. The beauty broke the somber mood that had come down upon them. Elrond turned his head.  
"The King desires his Companions to be warriors, and so he said he would gladly make Erestor one of his councilors, but not a Companion. Rosriel and her faction have no love for warriors." His grey eyes cast a wry look at the Fëanorion. "It is a pity Erestor is under her sway. Howbeit, he offered to prove himself, not through a feat of arms, but to show his speed and strength another way." He pointed. "He challenged Gil-galad to race to the top of the Stormbreaker."

The mountain dominated the sky to the north-east. Higher than the surrounding peaks, it thrust itself up into a knife-like ridge which fell in a sheer plunge of rock for a thousand ells. The gales which poured in from the ocean broke in streamers of cloud against the mountain, hence its name.

''The King took the way from the north and Erestor from the south. Nigh to the midst of the ridge is a slab of rock.''

''Ravensroost,'' Tindómion nodded. ''I have climbed to it.''

''Ravensleap, we call it now. Thou wilt know it is poised above a deep, cold tarn which lies at the foot of the precipice,'' Elrond said. ''Gil-galad said if Erestor could beat him in a race up to Ravensroost, and dive into the tarn before him he would welcome him as a companion - for it is not the race or the mountain which is a challenge.''

''No, the lake below is small - and smaller from from that height.''

''So that was the test: courage, or perhaps, as Rosriel said, foolhardiness.'' Elrond laughed. ''I thought it the latter when I took up the challenge myself. But Erestor accepted. This is what Vórimóro told me, for he, Borin and Baesel were appointed to witness.''

This bright summer day, the Stormbreaker brooded massive and somnolent against the deep blue, its face foreboding, scored by the movements of the stone in forgotten ages of Arda. Tindómion looked at Elrond.

''Erestor did not beat Gil-galad. No-one has. But the king waited for him on Ravenroost, and said that if he would essay the dive to the tarn then he would appoint him a Companion the next day.''

''And he would not?''

Elrond shook his head. ''I know not what Gil-galad said to him, but he reached out a hand - and Erestor turned away. The King dived clean as a swallow into the lake. And after that Basel, Borin and Vórimóro climbed to Ravenroost and leaped. The next chosen companion, Hinivon asked that he might do the same. And so, since then, it has become tradition. Thou needst not do it.''

''But it is always done.'' Tindómion leaned on the baluster. ''And no-one has ever beaten the King?''

"Not yet," Elrond agreed. "All new Companions offer to race the King to Ravensleap now."

''Tomorrow, then.'' Folding his arms, Tindómion gazed at the mountain.

''I will ask to wait beside the tarn.'' Elrond flung his arm about the hard shoulders. ''Do not hurry, keep a cool head and all will be well. It is courage at the last. Gil-galad wishes to know that those he chooses have the ability to rise above fear, to find a center of calm in the face of it. The king did not think it was lack of courage that stopped Erestor." He frowned. "He is wasted, I think. He is too close to that damned Borniven, but that is between the two of us."

''I will speak to the king this evening,'' Tindómion said.

  
~~~

  
The morning dawned calm and cloudless. It was the Solstice, which seemed a fitting time as any, Tindómion thought as he rode with the Lords Borin and Hinivon to starting point of the race. He wore only a pair of soft shoes, since the terrain crossed splintered rocks, but as was customary for racing or wrestling, he was otherwise naked. He stretched as he alighted from the horse and took a deep breath, considering the High King's expression when he had announced he would attempt the Ravensleap. As the Companions had murmured approval, Gil-galad said nothing, and his expression shifted to a curious gravity. Tindómion wondered if he had erred or were presuming, but then the King nodded a whit coolly and said: ''Very well. On the morrow.''

''Go well,'' Borin said now, slapping his back, and Hinivon smiled encouragingly.  
''Take a _deep_ breath and gauge the dive very finely,'' he advised.

''I thank thee.'' And Tindómion began to run.

~~

The ground fled from under his feet as he lengthened his stride. He felt the strength of the stone under the thin soil as the first outcroppings of rock broke its husk. Above him the Stormbreaker rose. The initial incline was not steep and any Elf or fit Man could run it with ease, but the ridge from whence Ravensleap jutted was scarce an ell wide and jagged.

Tindómion leaped upward, feeling the play of his muscles, the air in his lungs. He felt as if the rock itself propelled him onward, and quickened his pace until his vision was filled with the grey walls marching up before him. He jumped, using his hands to spring himself onto the ridge. Here he should run more slowly, but his stride lengthened again as he glimpsed ahead of him the figure of the king running like a stag, a banner of black hair streaming behind him. The sight spiked a thrill of challenge through Tindómion. It was beautiful, like watching a stallion run upon the green fields.  
He sprang to the out-thrust tongue of rock one pace behind Gil-galad, who put out his arms to arrest his progress. Their bodies clashed together.

High above an eagle screamed. There was no other sound save their breathing. For one moment Tindómion saw nothing, his eyes closed against sun-warmed hair, arms locked about the hard-muscled back, feeling their heartbeats twinned.

''Do not do this.'' The whisper was soft as a lover's. ''I know those I choose, I know their hearts. Thou hast naught to prove to me.''

Gil-galad's body pressed against every part of his hot flesh, and Tindómion felt as if he had come home. He wanted to stay here, absorbing the king's presence like sunlight.

_ Not sunlight, starlight, that is his name..._

But stars were remote and untouchable, and so should Gil-galad be to him. His king. His star.

''Tindómion,'' his voice urged. ''Do not do this.''

Tindómions fingertips seemed abnormally sensitive to the silken skin under his hands. A wave of heat drenched through him and collected in his loins. The sensation was not unfamiliar but never had it been so strong. He had wondered if he were one of those Elves who never wed, never felt desire, and he was horrified that he was becoming aroused in the clasp of another man. Guilt burned into his face and he quickly jerked away, turned his back. There was no possibility of hiding his erection.  
The tarn lay dark and still far below. He was not afraid; he needed somewhere to conceal himself, and cold water to quench this aberration.

He jumped from one foot and dived, curving outward from the slab, fingers trailing the air like an eagle's pinions before his arms came together over his head.

He hit the water clean as an arrow into the gold.

Gil-galad watched with indrawn breath until he saw the wet head break the surface, and then he followed.

Elrond grasped Tindómion's hand as he staggered onto the shore, legs shaking with reaction. He had taken no heed of the advice given him, nor even remembered it. He had not been calm but impelled by guilt. His action had been foolish beyond belief, and it was not been an act of bravery but of cowardice. A tremor of lingering desire shook through him and he gratefully clasped the soft towel.

He saw Elrond staring up. Gil-galad dived as if he had become his spear,_ Aeglos,_ creating hardly a ripple on the lakes surface. There was a breathless hush before he surfaced, black hair streaming with water, and Vórimóro reached to pull him out.

''A close run thing.''  
The king accepted a wineskin from Elrond, who handed another to Tindómion. The wine relaxed him all the way through to his bones, and he was able to smile as he stoppered it.

''No one has come so close, Sire,'' Vórimóro said as he dried the king's hair. There was a warmth and intimacy in the action that caused Tindómion to look away with a prick of annoyance.

''Not close enough," he said. "But I hope I have proved myself, Sire?''

"Indeed, Maglorion." Gil-galad's voice was cool; the silver-blue eyes distant.

Tindómion, his face blazing, turned to reach for his clothes. ~

~~~


	29. The Truths Of Love

  
**The Truths About Love.**   


~ _Aeglos. _ Snow point; the Spear of Gil galad.

The light fell full upon it as it rested in leather straps against the wall of the High King's armory. The room, which comprised part of his private chambers, bore Gil-galad's armor and weapons, the banners which would be carried into war, if war came again.  
It was early winter, mild so far, with early frosts and still, sunny days.

There was a time when the last of last of the High Elven Kings ruled, and before Sauron rose, when many believed that the glory of the Eldar would wax and spread. In that age Ost-in-Edhil would be founded and in Harlindon, Mithlond and Forlindon white villa's and palaces would be raised with towers like needles of stone where banners flew and music called to the stars.

Before the Three Rings were forged, before Eregion was ravaged and Eriador lost, before the Last Alliance.

Gil-galad's newest Knight-Companion had recently been given the honor of caring for the king's armor. It was a coveted position and one which had previously been Elrond's, but during the last two seasons it had become apparent that Tindómion was ostracized by the queen-mother's faction. This duty, which Elrond relinquished willingly, showed clearer than words the regard in which the Fëanorion was held by the king.

Tindómion had been startled when Gil-galad formally announced the appointment, for since that day at Midsummer when he raced up Stormbreaker, the king had treated him courteously but without the warmth of his initial welcome. This had relieved Tindómion at first. He was shamed to his soul that he had found himself aroused by the naked proximity of his liege-lord.

He tried to rationalize it. He had been exhilarated by the challenge and the thrilling – alarming – prospect of diving from that height into the lake...  
All excuses.  
As soon as he had laid eyes on Gil-galad he had been dazzled.

He turned inward, concentrating on his training. For this he could wear armor, and he was beginning to desperately fear being naked before the king lest his body betray him again. He did not use the public baths where the warriors relaxed, instead he returned to his rooms and bathed. He did not believe he would be affected by any-one else, but the risk was too great.

His unconscious effort to distance himself isolated him and left him open to Rosriel's followers who formed almost a separate court to Gil-galad's. The queen-mother's foremost supporter was Erestor who, like Fanari, was a survivor of Gondolin.

Like Tindómion, Erestor also bore the stigma of having a father whose name was hissed: Salgant, he whom had supported Maeglin, fled and hid in a quake of fear during the attack of the city.  
Any who knew of this had died in the destruction of Gondolin, or so Erestor believed. In fact, Idril and Tuor had known, but said nothing. Fanari had learned it from Idril but she had kept silent. Erestor was not responsible for his father's cowardice, but in many ways he was similar to Salgant, preferring scholarly pursuits to martial ones. Yet he was clever in council, and Rosriel found he and Borniven perfect receptacles into which she could pour her long-held hatred of the Sons Of Fëanor.

The snubs and remarks were light at first, little stinging barbs which Tindómion forced himself to ignore. Elrond had warned him that certain people would resent him, although the majority would not blame him for the actions of his father. This, he said, was why Celebrimbor did not dwell in the palace: he had no patience for such things.

Most of the court were polite to Tindómion, if distant. Many had lost and suffered through the working out of the Oath and the Doom of the Noldor. They could not be blamed for their wariness.

Since Tindómion had no intention of arguing with Rosriel, he threw himself into training or closeted himself in his rooms to play the harp. He had not yet been asked to perform for the king, but he found that it calmed him when nothing else would, and he spent many hours alone.

By the time winter came down he felt certain that Gil-galad had withdrawn his comradeship after the incident on Ravensroost. He had surely felt Tindómion's arousal and been appalled by it, and while he would not turn the younger man away, had set a distance between them. The thought deepened Tindómion's shame, but he concealed it, speaking when he was addressed, only abdicating his stiffness with Elrond whom, from the beginning, had shown him uncomplicated friendship. If the Peredhel noticed the schism between the King and Tindómion, he was too tactful to mention it.  
Tindómion's mood however, was dark. He was certain that Gil-galad considered him unnatural and crooked. His mother had spoken of the relationship between Glorfindel and Ecthelion without visible distaste. She might understand, but the very thought of telling her that he found another man desirable, and the High King, no less! caused Tindómion to flush with mortification.

  
***

  
The room was silent as he entered. There were three suits of armor upon stands, swords, daggers, shields and here, _Aeglos,_ a lethal thorn of ice.  
Not much needed to be done, but deliberately Tindómion did not approach the great weapon until he had methodically oiled and polished the rest.

The sun had shifted, but still _Aeglos_ glittered. He had never seen Gil-galad throw it, but had watched him hurl spears in training, his height and strength sending the long shaft with deadly accuracy. He also bore a great-sword, _Helegon_, whose edge burned as silver-blue as his eyes.

Slowly, Tindómion reached out a hand toward the gleaming thing. It was smooth and cool under his skin.

''My father gave it to me.'' Another hand joined his, curled around it, so that Tindómion's fingers reflexively gripped the shaft. Gil-galad's touch was warm.

''Lift it.''

He drew back, and Tindómion slowly lifted the spear from its straps. It was lighter than he had expected and as he raised it, he bowed his head in salute to both the living high king and the dead.

''He gave it to me before he sent me south to the Haven's, after the Dagor Bragollach,'' Gil-galad continued. ''He did not use a spear in battle, but this was his own father's, Fingolfin's, fashioned in Tirion. He said I would not be able to throw it until I was full grown, that I would master it then.'' Half of his face was flawless white in the light, the other shadowed. ''I treasure it. I swore that I would become proficient in its use and make him proud.''

Dust motes danced and dazzled between them. They seemed to cling to the thick fringe of Gil-galad's black lashes. Tindómion took a breath, said softly: ''I am sorry, Sire.''

''I loved my father. Still I love him. Yet thou wilt find some – '' The last word was edged. ''Speak as if his death were a punishment meted out by the Valar.''

''Punishment? For what, Sire?''

''For unnatural acts.'' The king turned away, went to the window.

Tindómion's mouth dried.  
''I am sorry, Sire. I do not understand. Unnatural?''  
The butt of the spear thudded gently upon the marble floor as he let it slip down. Gil-galad looked looked over one wide shoulder.  
''No matter. I am sure thou wilt hear the whispers soon enough.''

Deliberately obtuse, Tindómion did not reply and the King left him without another word.

His hands shook as he polished the spear, and he leaned his head against the wall wondering what exactly Gil-galad had meant to convey to him. The tone had sounded angry, yet he said he had loved his father. So did he hate that Fingon was rumored to have been _unnatural_...?  
Abruptly Tindómion left the room and changed into riding gear to go and speak with his mother.

Fanari was in the still-room when he arrived. She came out with a rush and a smile of welcome, calling orders for mulled wine and food, then drew him in to the long room overlooking the sea. Her handmaid brought wine and a plate of fresh honey-cakes with a smile, dimpling as he asked her how she fared. Fanari poured and he drank, words piled in his throat. He did not wish to see that glad expression drain from her face. She had suffered enough without having to bear the shame of an unnatural son.

After answering her questions of Lindon, he set down the goblet and began, groping for words.  
"Mother, the king said something which...has made me wonder..." He could feel the burn of his cheeks. "Thou didst meet his father in Vinyamar?"

She nodded. ''Yes.''

''Apparently, there are rumors that his death was a punishment...''

Her brows drew together. "Yes, I have heard, we spoke of this."

''I did not really understand, mother. Unnatural acts.''

''The king says this?'' she demanded.

''He said some spoke of it.''

"Unnatural acts...!" She repeated. "Listen now: Glorfindel told me he saw Fingon standing before the Balrog who slew him. He died, and none knew where his bones crumbled...the Eagles witnessed it.'' Tears streaked her face suddenly. ''They brought the news to Turgon. Few knew all, for it was terrible! Does Gil-galad know how his father died? Dost thou?''

''He was killed by Gothmog, whom Ecthelion later slew and died with, yes I...''

''He stood against Gothmog and fought him until another Balrog enwrapped him with a whip and clasped his arms to his side so he could not fight. Then his helm was cloven, his skill broken, and they trampled his body and his banners into blood as if he were _ nothing!_'' She stared at him through a fresh fall of tears.

He tried to speak and could not; the image she evoked was too vivid. Such an ending, ignominious as a traitor's death.

''And they would speak of him being _ punished_ with that death?''

''Gil-galad loves his father,'' Tindómion began and she flashed: ''Then why dost thou say he allows people to traduce him?''

''He does not, but he knows of the whispers.''

She crossed her arms. Her face hardened under the gleam of tears, and she raised one hand, brushing them away.  
''I will return to the palace with thee. I would speak with the king. About his father.''

Tindómion was startled. ''I will escort thee of course. What... what of Fingon?''

''His memory should not be stained and slandered by hate,'' she said.

  
***

  
That night Tindómion played his harp before the gathering for the first time. Sometimes he felt as if he plucked music and words from the air without learning them, that tunes formed under his fingers and possessed him. Rosriel asked that he play the Lay of Leithien and the Great Hall rang to the whispering echoes of the sorrow and enchantment wrought by voice and harp-string.

He had a voice like gold. Elrond and the high king could imagine it was his father sitting there, head bent over his instrument. Save for the red gleaming in his hair, his profile was Maglor's, as were the elegant fingers which drew forth the notes.

There was a silence after. Elves showed their appreciation through this lack of demonstration, each soul full of the emotions the Lay evoked.

''Wilt thou sing of Gondolin?'' Fanari asked into the quiet. ''The Lay thou didst compose of Glorfindel?''

Heads turned toward her.

''We do not sing of such things here, Fanari,'' Rosriel spoke from her seat close to the High King.

Tindómion looked at his mother, but her face was composed and he realized she had asked purposefully, to see the reaction. She bent her head as if tacitly accepting the rebuff, and he almost spoke, for he knew of Glorfindel's death from her own lips. She had witnessed it. He had been Ecthelion's lover, but did that matter? Surely it did not negate his sacrifice. His head turned to Gil-galad and met a glance which silenced him. He rose from his stool, crossed to his mother, and lead her from the hall.  
She said nothing as he escorted her to her rooms but her face had an expression he had seen before; If she had been a warrior she would have been arming for battle.

In the morning he rode out with her, the hooves of the horses snapping on the hard ground as the sun flamed red into the world. Once or twice she gazed at him thoughtfully, but when he asked her what was amiss she said: ''Nothing.'' And then, ''The High King could not over-ride his mother's edict without causing her great public embarrassment. Thinks't thou he should have?''

''Yes,'' he said. ''He is the high king, after all!''

''Thou dost not consider how very young he was when he was sent from Hithlum, and there are other things at play here.''

She said nothing more, and when they entered the palace Gil-galad beckoned them from a doorway. Fanari appeared so unsurprised that Tindómion thought it must be prearranged, but at his questioning glance she gave a brief head-shake.

Gil-galad lead then into a quiet chamber hung in blue and red. A sweet-smelling fire burned, and underfoot the marble was warm from the hypocausts. It was a private chamber looking out onto a walled garth where leafless apple trees rose from grass silvered by a fading frost.

''My friends.'' Gil-galad handed out cups of steaming wine and and thanking him, they sipped. Honey and ginger scented the air.  
''Thou wert angered and surprised when my mother said that lays of Gondolin were not sung of here?'' He looked at Tindómion as he spoke. ''There are many who do not wish to hear of those whose names are, or should be renowned.''

''Sire,'' Fanari's voice was expressionless as she studied him. ''Do they also never sing of thy father, whom is likewise worthy of remembrance?''

A spark leaped into his eyes.  
''I know he is. As is his father and the lords of Gondolin, but – '' He paused and Fanari's brows rose a little as if in question. He turned, making a strange gesture, as if he could not form words.

''Thou art so like him,'' she whispered.

"Yes," he murmured. "Yes, I think I am. And thou." He turned back to Tindómion, "Were it not for the red in thy hair, thou couldst be Maglor."

"The red is from Maedhros, of course," Fanari said. "He and thy father were very close. When Fingon died, I am sure he was desperately grieved."

The King nodded, his eyes indrawn for a moment before they came back to her.  
''Thou art spoken of as having been close in friendship to Glorfindel.''  
She bent her head.  
''And thou didst know he and Ecthelion of the Fountains were lovers?''

Silence. Tindómion flushed.

"I knew them both from the time I was born." Her answer was almost a challenge. "They were close as brothers. They were lovers, yes. I do not believe it unclean and I will not listen to any-one," she continued, with an edge to her voice, "_ Any-one,_ who would dare to say that _their_ deaths were some form of _ punishment._ If they were, then those who would mete out such punishment are unworthy of any respect !"

''Lady – '' Gil-galad reached out a hand. ''Thou didst speak to my father. Didst thou ever have cause to believe that he was closer to Maedhros than a kinsman should be?''

''Why wouldst thou ask me this, Sire?'' Her face was still roused by anger.

''Because in Maedhros' company, my father shone," the king said. "There were things I saw when I was a child, but did not understand, not then. My father was only truly _ alive _ when we visited his cousin, or Maedhros came to Hithlum. So few times. Too few."

Fanari cast a quick look at her son. ''Sire, Glorfindel and Ecthelion spoke of things when I was near, perhaps they trusted me to understand. And when I was but a child at Mereth Aderthad, I saw thy father and Maedhros walking together. They loved one another. Art thou asking me if they were lovers? I tell thee: yes.''

''I was right.'' Gil-galad loosed a breath as one releasing a heavy load. He covered his face with his hands for a moment. ''I wish I had known. Thou may wonder how Maedhros could watch thee violated by his brother, but he was different then. They were aflame for one another.'' _ And it was so cold in Hithlum..._

"Maedhros had lost half his soul." Fanari's voice shook a little. "I saw his face at the Havens. How could he care for anything after Fingon's death?" She began to cry silently, for Maedhros, for those she had loved who were gone, for Fingon, for Maglor, having to live in helpless despair with an elder brother who sank into madness, for Gil-galad, losing his father so young. Tindómion drew her into his arms, and rested his chin on her hair.

''Wilt thou tell me?'' the King asked.

''Yes.'' She smiled through the tears. ''Willingly, though I do not know much. I wish there were those who could tell thee more.''

Gil-galad glanced at the water clock. ''I must meet with my lords. After feast this night?''

''Of course.'' She smiled a mother's smile.

''Father called him _Nárë fëanya._ I was too young then, to understand.''

Tindómion stood dazedly in a sluice of emotions: relief and astonishment were the strongest. Gil-galad did not deem such a love wrong?

_ So he would not think my arousal unclean even if he is not a man who desires other men. _ For heartbeats he felt only a sense of elation that the king did not regard him as twisted.

''Thy cursed father was my husband !'' The words were a harsh intrusion which brought them about to look at Rosriel. She had entered through the long, glazed windows silently and stood magnificent in silver-white. Her hair was dressed with diamonds, and she was beautiful. It seemed impossible that vitriol could spill from such a face.

Gil-galad's face closed as if it were a book which was slammed shut.  
''Lady...''

''She will tell thee lies, making evil into something pure and good. Thou wilt listen to me, to the _truth_ or be damned as Fingon was damned, slain because of his filthiness !''

''Be silent.'' The kings voice was soft, yet held an edge like a blade. ''Thou art my mother, not my counselor and not my queen, and thou wilt be silent.''

Rosriel's icy gaze flicked to Fanari who almost stepped back at the palpable hatred in her eyes.  
''Stay away from my son or find me a very bad enemy. I will exile thee and there is nowhere thou canst go save over the sea, if they would accept thee, or across the distant mountains to the lands where the rustic Silvans dwell.''

''Thou dost make threats to my guests? Thou hast no the power to exile any from my realm!'' Gil-galad took Fanari's arm. ''Come, lady.'' For a moment he looked at Tindomion, who was blazingly angry. Silently, Gil-galad warned him not to respond, watched the struggle for control.

Fanari said mildly: ''Sire, I would be honored to speak with thee, perhaps in my son's chambers. He knows of Gondolin, for I have told him all, and he could play to us.''

Blood suffused Rosriel's cheeks. ''What wilt thou tell him?" she demanded. "That my husband loved blood-cursed Maedhros Fëanorion?"

The door slammed on her last words as Gil-galad closed it decisively before her face.

''I am sorry,'' he said. "This is how it is in my court. And I will gladly come to thee later, Lady Fanari. I long to hear something that is not hatred." ~

~~~


	30. The Twisted Roots of Love and Hate

 

  
~ ''Fingon and Maedhros loved, and not only as cousins, as many think, or would prefer to assume.''

Tindomion met his mother's eyes. His heart was beating in his throat and the stiff, embroidered collar of his tunic felt far too tight.

''I wondered, but I had always believed it the love of kinship,'' he murmured. ''Perhaps it does not surprise me.''

"I cannot blame Rosriel," Fanari confessed. "I was imagining how it might have been for me, had I wed thy father and he had loved another - as I believed he did. Deep love can become deeper hate."

''I heard no love in her voice.'' Tindomion went to the great harp and sat down. He hoped his mother would think that the heat of the fire caused the flush in his cheeks.

~~~

In formal robes, a circlet holding back his hair, Gil-galad entered the chamber and inclined his head, offing his velvet robe and disposing himself on the cushioned chair. He accepted the wine Fanari offered him with a smile, and in his eyes lay an expression of anticipation, of hope. It made him seem strangely young, and indeed how very young he had been when he last saw his father, Fanari thought.

Tindómion played a gentle tune that blended into the whisper of the fire as his mother spoke. Her voice grew softer with memories which seemed to be drawn out of the flames, become painted by them to show in bright, beautiful images a time long ago.

''My fiftieth begetting day...  
Turgon had gone on a long journey with Finrod, and that was when he dreamed of where Gondolin would be built.''  
Prince Fingon attended the celebration, and I saw how he looked other-where, how he observed Glorfindel and Ecthelion, openly lovers. It was not so easy for them either, but Fingon and Maedhros were the heirs of two great Houses. They were both expected to wed.''  
''He looked...lonely.  
I was but a child when I saw them at Mereth Aderthad, walking in the dusk and their arms around one another. They kissed and parted. It did not seem unnatural to me.''  
''In the years after until we removed to Gondolin, when Fingon visited Turgon, he spoke to me at times. He lit up like the sun through cloud. I think it was a great joy to him to converse with those who considered his love _fine,_ for many called the Fëanorions accursed, and even in the Long Peace spoke against them, concerned what the future would bring.''

''My father would never have given his love unworthily.'' Gil-galad's eyes were bright as lamps, and the fire leaped, as if in answer to his passion. The flames glossed Tindómion's hair copper.

''I was but twelve years old when I first saw him. Father had just proclaimed I was to accompany him wherever he went and I was overjoyed. We rode out and Maedhros and his brothers, Maglor and Caranthir joined us.'' The burning-blue eyes lifted to where Tindómion sat. ''I loved Maedhros at once, perhaps because I sensed my father did.''

So many memories...

"We spent days with them sleeping under the stars. I wanted Maedhros to stay with us forever because he made my father smile, and was so kind to me." He turned his head. "So was Maglor. Caranthir too, though thy sire was gentler, Tindomion, a voice like music. Caranthir I feared at first for his temper. His angers were swift, yet his love was equally as deep. I did not wish to return to the palace."

Now they came to the difficult part. Fanari said diplomatically: ''I think, sire, that so deeply did thy father and Prince Maedhros love, that no marriage would have been happy to any woman, and it must be said, it could not have been easy for thy mother, either. ''

''Maedhros named me Gil-galad,'' the High King murmured. ''And how my mother hated that name.'' He said the word 'mother' as if it were strange or bitter to his mouth. "I was always Ereinion to her."

''I felt so much hatred in her, and it has never faded even when we heard that my father had...died.'' his sleek brows drew together in pain. ''I needed no telling. I felt it.''

The fire keened softly as it reached a pocket of sap in the log. It was the only sound in that chamber. Tindomion's hands had stilled on the harp strings. The silence was heavy with sorrow, yet also a strange peace. For Gil-galad, as for Fingon, to speak of this was a relief.

''Sire.'' His voice hardly disturbed the quiet. ''I believe, as my mother believes, that love is a gift of the One to his Children. It cannot be chosen, it cannot be relinquished. One does not choose to love, or not to love. The Laws of the Valar are harsh if they do recognize this.'' He saw his mother nod. ''There are many ways to love. None are a matter of...choice. It would be so very much easier if they were.''

''Yes,'' Gil-galad whispered. ''Would it not be?''

Rosriel opened the door without knocking, stepping in like a queen, a queen whom night go where she pleased, do as she wished. Since even the mightiest kings of the Eldar would rise to greet a guest, be they never so humble, this was the height of discourtesy. From habit, the others came to their feet.

''I told thee to stay away from my son.'' Her voice held naked threat. ''What hast thou told him?'' She advanced on Fanari, who had dealt with far more dangerous people than Rosriel, and stood her ground. Her head was raised and her expression glazed to haughtier. She did not reply.

''_What didst thou tell him?_'' Rosriel demanded, and her hand rose in a swift move to lash across Fanari's face.

It was caught in a grip of steel.  
''No.'' Tindómion, silver eyes furious, put himself between the two.

''She will fill thine ears with lies, she is as unnatural as thy cursed sire! The only natural thing he did in his life was beget thee on me!'' Rosriel wrenched against a hold which was not cruel but strong as a vise. ''If that damned son of Fëanor had not tempted him, he would have been a true husband to me. Fingon was _weak !_ Release me, thou cursed..._Fëanorion !" _

''Do not _dare_ say such a thing!'' Fanari's voice was startling in its anger. ''Fingon died in battle and he fought until his arms were pinned to his sides. It was witnessed by the great Eagles! He drove back Glaurung to Angband with archers on horseback! He rescued Maedhros from torment on Thangorodrim...''

''And _that_ name will never be spoken here! All that line are cursed, and thou..!'' Rosriel seethed at Tindómion, whose face bore the arrogant stamp of his sire's bloodline as if hammered from one metal. ''Thou doth carry that curse also. What, Fanari, didst thou _beg_ his father to take thee?''

Gil-galad's face was white with temper. ''Silence! I will not listen to thee traduce those I love, nor those who serve me and are my guest-friends!'' He guided her toward the door. ''Never insult my father, _or_ my guests or I shall have _thee_ exiled!''

Rosriel glared at him. "Maedhros Fëanarion caused thy father to fall into sin! Fingon the Valiant," she sneered. "was weak! That was why he died: _weakness !_''

''_Weakness?_'' Gil-galad pushed her away, even as she swept on: ''Send forth these two before the curse of the oath is wrought again in our realm!'' Her eyes spat anger at Tindómion.

''Leave us. Now.'' Gil-galad opened the door and firmly placed his mother outside, closing the door upon her, lifting the bar into its brackets. His head bowed for a moment against the wood.

''Sire, jealousy eats at her,'' Fanari said carefully.

"I wonder, did she ever love my father? She never wept for him." He remembered the dreadful feeling of _ knowing _ Fingon was dead, the pain, the grief, his mothers swift slap to bring him to himself.

"It is not my right to judge," Fanari replied. "I understood Maeglin's treachery, born of a love which was never reciprocated. Do not feel compelled to step between thy mother and I."

''Thou art a guest. Thy son my knight and, I hope, friend.'' Gil-galad turned, his face cool. ''She shall not miscall thee, no, nor my father or the sons of Fëanor whatever their offenses. Not in my hearing!''

''Nor in mine, and I have the right to miscall my father!'' Tindómion declared unexpectedly. He wanted to bring Maglor to justice, but no-one else would abuse his name. He thought he saw the flicker of a smile in his mother's eyes, could not be certain.

~~~

''Thou didst know thy mother would tell me these things,'' Gil-galad stated when she had gone with Baesel and Borin as escorts.

''She has always spoken openly to me, Sire.'' He knew his heightened color must be visible. ''Not of thy father: of Glorfindel and Ecthelion. But I have heard the whispers of a curse on those who...desire other men against the Laws of the Eldar.''

''Dost thou believe that?''

''There may be a curse on the line of Fëanor.'' Maglor's son ran his fingers over the sweeping curve of the harp-wood. ''But not for loving. That would be... outrageous.''

''Thou doth touch thy harp as he touched his.'' The words brought Tindómion's head up, a faint crease between the dark brows.  
"Maglor," Gil-galad said. "Like a lover."

Tindómion drew his hand back quickly. He said emphatically: ''I am not my father.''

''And yet thou art the living image of him, save for thy hair.''

''Did he...love another man?'' The silver eyes were hidden under long lashes.

''I never heard so, nor saw anything that would lead me to believe it,'' Gil-galad replied. ''Wouldst thou hate him if that were so?''

''I would save my hate for something more worthy,'' Tindómion replied swiftly. ''But I would not bring greater shame on my mother by any rumors that _I_ were...''

''Would she be ashamed of thee? I think not, Tindómion.''

"People believe me cursed by my blood and birth as it is. Nothing I can do or say will change that."

''I do not see a curse when I look on thee, my friend,'' Gil-galad said and into the quiet rustle of fire he murmured: _"Nárya."_ ~

~~~

  


  


  
Chapter End Notes:   


  


Nárya - my flame.

  



	31. Silver Light

  
~ Something changed after that evening: the lines were more clearly drawn between Rosriel and her son's court. The king asked Tindómion to sing of Gondolin, of Fingon and Fingolfin, and though the songs he composed were filled with sorrow, they celebrated the valor of those who had died in battle against the Dark.

Ice came down between the High King and his mother but melted between Gil-galad and Tindómion, reverting back to the friendship which had blossomed at the beginning. Spring came with brisk westerly winds and showers which left droplets of water clinging to the first celandines. Sunlight fell aslant through brief cascades of rain and its strengthening rays echoed the returning warmth between the king and his youngest Companion.

Their feet left no imprint on the grass as they walked. After days of blustery squalls the wind had dropped and the sky was clear and calm. The last color melted from the west and Eärendil sailed into the heavens.

''...no I have not, Sire.''

''I thought we would ride to there to speak with Galadriel.'' the king halted. ''Nenuial is a beautiful lake.''

''I would be glad to.'' Tindómion smiled as he too paused, and the great star burned in his eyes, caught their sheen like steel.

''Istelion.''*

''Sire?''

''_ Silver Light_. It is an old word and I have only heard it once, from a Loremaster who was of Doriath. He learned it from Melian in the Ages of the Stars. Thine eyes. Silver Light. I was wondering what _epessë_ would suit thee. _Istelion,_ son of Silver Light. Since Fanari named thee for the time thou wert born, when the stars fade but Eärendil still shines, that seems fitting. Wilt thou have this name of me, my friend?''

For a long time Tindómion said nothing. His eyes showed no emotion but it blazed from his soul like heat. He did not have a father-name and no-one had gifted him with an _epessë._ When he replied at last his voice was husky.  
''I thank thee, Sire. I would be honored to bear the name.''

The High King laid a hand on his back. ''Then thou art _ Istelion. _ Come. Play for me.''

~~~

Tindómion was not the only Elf in Middle-earth who bore the blood of the House of Fëanor. The other was Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, who had repudiated his fathers acts in Nargothrond and remained there under Orodreth. Even in his youth, Celebrimbor had been an artisan of great skill, and as the years passed this would grow. Ever he would be spoken of as the greatest craftsman of the Elves since his mighty grand-sire.

In the Spring after Tindómion swore allegiance to Gil-galad the cousins met for the first time.

After, it was said that Celebrimbor went east to Eregion because he wished his own lordship, and not to follow the son of Fingon. It was true that Celebrimbor was proud. He did did not form one of Gil-galad's household, and was not a Companion. His great skill was smithing, fashioning anything from swords to exquisite jewelry. In Lindon he had his own mansion and craft-halls and this absorbed him and drew others of like mind.

But despite his preoccupation with his craft, he had heard that he had a kinsman, and learned the manner of his cousin's begetting. He had never heard of Fanari although he remembered the name of her House.

On a day not long after _Nost-na-Lothion,_ he came back from hunting with a friend, and was riding into the gates of his home when behind him the street rang with hoof-beats. He turned to watch them pass, seeing the colors of Gil-galad rippling in the wind, the flashes of gem-studded head-stalls and jeweled hair. The High King raised a hand with a nod of his head as he passed. Celebrimbor inclined his own.

A length behind Gil-galad rode a man tall and elegant. His hair was deep bronze, spilling down to his booted legs, caught back from his face in three wrist-thick braids. Celebrimbor had known Maglor and he instantly knew whom this must be. Eyes caught the light in splinters of silver as the man turned his head, sensing the regard and although the two had never met, recognition flared in both of them.

~~~

''Sire, the man at the House of the Silver Hand was Celebrimbor, was it not?'' Tindómion asked later.

''Thou hast not seen him before?'' Gil-galad was surprised. ''I though that thou might have sought him out before now.''

''No, sire. So, that is my cousin.''

"He is brilliant. He has not many friends, save for Lintalómë, ** whom was with him today. Although I doubt he cares for that." Gil-galad's smile was amused. "His craft is his life, and many apprentices are eager to learn from him. He fashioned _Helegon_ for me, and thine own _Gurthdur._ I asked it of him.'' He saw the surprise in Tindómion's eyes and laughed, then his expression sobered. ''Why hast thou not sought him?''

Tindómion shrugged uncomfortably, shook his head.

''I know of the Oath made to find thy father. Círdan told me. Istelion.'' Long hands gripped the unyielding shoulders. ''I see the hate in thee. I would not see thee stain thy hands red with the blood of thine own kin. I will not permit it in my realm. And thou hast sworn fealty to me.''

The silver eyes were unblinking. ''Thou didst love thy father, sire. Thou wert not engendered in violence.''

"I was not engendered in love either. All thou canst see is the shame of thy begetting, and will not even talk to those who knew Maglor: Elrond, myself, and now Celebrimbor. Thou art determined that naught will sway thy hatred art thou not?"

Tindómion jerked away from the hands, the brilliant eyes and turned.

"Stubborn," Gil-galad murmured, watching as he strode from the room. He cast himself back upon the padded chair. "Istelion, if thou couldst only see how very like them thou art." His head tipped back and he closed his eyes.

~~~

Summer promised to be settled and dry that year. The eastern winds which bit in the winter now carried warm air over the great landmass of Middle-earth and Spring sank easily into the lush bosom of summer. The nights were a time of music and starlight, but in the hot afternoons many Elves rested.

The High King himself was relaxing in his chambers, when Elrond was shown in. he languidly focused his eyes.

''Elrond?''

''I think thou shouldst come to see Istelion, Gil; he is - dreaming.''

"Dreaming?"  
In sleep Elves often delved back into pleasant memories of their lives, thus the gravity of Elrond's face and voice disturbed Gil-galad and brought him to his feet. He left the room and went quickly along the hall. His tap on Tindómion's door went unheeded, and he opened it. The outer room was empty.

''Istelion?''

A muttered word caught his attention from the bed-chamber. It was a soft, almost distant protest, carrying something he had never heard in Tindómion's voice before. Without hesitation, he pushed wide the adjoining door.

''_Atar!_'' Clear this time, in grief. Then: ''Maedhros!''

The King stopped soundlessly beside the couch.

''Istelion?''

The bronze head tossed, an expression of the deepest grief exploded over his face, his breath caught on a sob.

''I swear it!''

''Istelion!'' The silver eyes focused. Tindómion sat up. There was a mist of perspiration on his brow and his skin was alabaster pale. For a moment, he seemed not to recognize who stood over him, then hot blood bloomed across his cheeks.

''Forgive me, Sire. I dreamed.''

''What didst thou dream?''

Pushing himself from the couch, eyes still other-where, Tindómion swayed and Gil-galad caught him, feeling tremors pass through his muscles. His hair was unbraided, it fell across his face as he bowed his head.

''I saw...I think I....was _my father._'' The words tumbled out like flood-water. ''I saw a man with eyes like nothing I have seen...like jewels...'' He drew himself away, reached for the wine that Elrond held out to him silently. ''I saw...demons of fire...there were many of them. The man died. Not thy father. It was Fëanor. I know it. I was Maglor.'' He drank quickly and wine splashed down his tunic. "Am I mad?" he whispered. ''_He _ spoke to me, _Fëanor !_ I felt the grief at his death as if my heart was torn from me. He vanished into fire and ash...._Fëanor..._ Am I mad?"

"No !" The King braced him. "Thou art thy fathers son and his soul-bond to thee is a strong one. He knows thee not and yet something within him reaches out to thee. He must still live." His heart ached both for Maglor and his son.

''I saw Fingon, Fingolfin, Maedhros....I knew them, those who have long died...''

''I could envy thee that dream,'' Gil-galad murmured. ''To see my father again, and others I loved.''

''No, do not envy me," Tindómion closed his eyes. ''For there was blood and fire, and a breaking of the heart.''

''Sit down.'' Elrond ordered firmly, and he and the King lowered Tindómion back to the settle.  
''I share dreams with my brother. But I have never seen the past.''

Gil-galad looked thoughtfully at the bent bronze head. "I would like thee to speak with Galadriel when we go to Nenuial, Istelion. She is wise, it may be something she has knowledge of."

"I do not want to see his life !" Tindómion flashed. ''I do not want to feel what he felt !'' His brows were drawn in pain. He still felt the shocking grief of seeing Fëanor die.  
If he were not careful he would weep now for something which had long passed, something he himself had not even experienced.

"Perhaps thou hast no choice. Thou art his son and he is lost and alone. He has suffered. Whom will hear him if not his own son?"

_Whom will hear him? _ Tindómion's eyes burned as he leaned them into the heels of his hands.

The dreams began then. They were not to give him peace for thousands of years.

~~~

Rosriel clasped her hands together and sat queenly and straight in a gilded chair. Behind her, ranked like guards were Erestor and Borniven. Jewels flashed on their breasts.

"Thou didst wish to see me, mother?" Gil-galad sat down.

''Yes, Ereinion. It is the thought of thy counselors that it is past time for thee to choose a wife.'' There was no graceful small talk, the words were clipped out brisk as a Mortal huckster's.

The King raised his brows. "My father was very much older when he wed thee."

"That is to his shame. Fingolfin was wise when he chose me as Fingon's bride."

"And was Fingolfin wise when he rode out to challenge Morgoth? It was an act of transcendent valor, but not a wise one."

Rosriel's lips thinned. "I would see thee wed and with heirs."

Gil-galad glanced up at Erestor and Borniven.  
"One assumes that these are the counselors who would see me wed? Why now? We stand at the beginning of an Age of peace, although we will ever maintain an army. But the enemy is gone and none can foresee the great darkness rising again. It is true that many served Morgoth, but most were destroyed or scattered. I see no pressing need to take a wife. Fingolfin had foresight. He foresaw his own death and that is why he wished my father to marry."

"Lord Elrond," Erestor offered. "believes this is only a reprieve, he too has foresight, Sire."

"And I believe and trust in it."

"Thou doth need an heir," his mother insisted.

"Thou art so eager to see me dead?"

"Thy House is cursed!"

A silence fell. Erestor looked anywhere but at the King, who flung one booted leg over the other and raised a hand in a gesture of graceful acceptance.

"Perhaps it is," he agreed smoothly. "And if that is so then it is my duty not to get any son on whom it would fall." Rosriel drew a breath and he cut across it. "I have heirs. Elrond is one, but before even he is Tindómion Maglorion."

At the utter consternation this roused, he hid a smile.  
"What, thou didst not consider this? Maedhros dispossessed himself so that the kingship went to his uncle, my grandfather. But none can deny that the House of Fëanor is the eldest and that if I chose, I could name him heir."

"No-one would accept him !" Borniven expostulated.

"No Elf would have one with the blood of the Kinslayers as king !" Rosriel pushed herself to her feet, her face livid. "That ill-gotten one will _never_ wear the crown of the Noldor!" She flung the venom full in her son's face. "Do not think I am blind ! Thou wouldst follow the accursed practices of thy father and Maedhros ! I see the way thou dost look at him and he devours thee with his eyes !"

"And that is quite enough." Gil-galad's authority rang in the room like a great bell. "Thou wilt never malign my father in my presence, lady. Never again, Dost thou hear me? Not him nor one who has never done aught but treat thee with courtesy. I am High King and I can send thee from this place into exile if I choose."

"I am thy mother !" Her voice came strangled.

A humorless laugh came. "Thou wert never a mother to me." Gil-galad strode to the chamber door and flung it open. "If I hear that anyone has defamed my fathers name or slandered those I love, I _will_ send those people hence and I care not what rank or supposed power they hold." Wrath shone in his face like white fire. "Get out !"

Rosriel swept past him in a storm of silks; at the door she swung back and spat: "Thou wilt die as thy father did if thou dost embrace his uncleanliness !"

Alone in the room, the High King poured wine and sat down, resting his head against the back of the chair.

~~~

Tindómion felt the nerves flutter under his skin as the chamberlain showed him into a room. There was wine on a table and he poured, but did not drink. Outwardly, his face was calm and remote but hearing the doors open he set down the goblet and turned.

The older man's hair was jet black. He was tall, strongly built and made more so by his labors over a forge, but he held himself as straight as a lance, his grey eyes slowly assessing his visitor.

''Tindómion Maglorion,'' he greeted. ''I have heard of thee.''

''And I have heard much of thee, Lord Celebrimbor.''

It was the first time Tindómion had come face to face with some-one who bore all the arrogant brilliance of the blood of Fëanor. Perhaps it was not surprising that their conversation was wary and courteous as two fighters sparring for an opening. It occurred to him that others must find he himself as difficult to deal with.

He wanted to ask if Celebrimbor lived with the shame of his heritage, but the master-smith seemed above such considerations. In his eyes gleamed a preoccupied light verging on obsession, and Tindómion thought of the king's words, that he had few friends and cared little. This was a man in love with what he made with his hands, as his grandfather had loved the Silmarilli.

''Thou didst know my...Maglor, lord?'' he asked at last.

''Yes,'' replied Celebrimbor readily. ''He was in the east with Maedhros until the end. He ever supported his elder brother. He used to play to me, before Dagor Bragollach. Dost thou also play?''

''Yes, I play.'' A faint tinge of color hit Tindómion's cheeks.

''I would like to hear thee. Maglor's music was without peer. Thou doth wish to find him? The King has spoken of it.'' Celebrimbor sipped the wine, surveying the stern face before him.

''I have sworn to find him.'' The words elicited a faint wince from Curufin's son.

''Oaths taken by those of our blood are never to be broken, however lightly spoken.''

''It was not lightly spoken.''

''I can see it was not.''

Tindómion thought then that Celebrimbor could not imagine that he wished to find Maglor through hate or vengeance. In that the smith was wholly Fëanorion. One might decry that acts of that House, but one would not be ashamed to be born into it. Groping for an answer, he saw Celebrimbor look to the colonnade. An man was standing there, tall and slim. The moment Tindómion met the strange eyes he lilted away in a flit of black hair.

''Do not be offended. Lintalómë is a dear friend to me but he is a fey creature, or so some say."

"I find many do not wish to extend the hand of friendship to one of my - our - blood. I am not offended," The answer was stiff.

Celebrimbor looked at him with faint impatience. "I have no time for such things, yet that is why I do not live at the palace, though Gil-galad is a friend. We are not the sum of our fathers, we make our own lives, cousin. And that is not why Lintalómë would not come to greet thee, as I say, he is something of a loner and I become absorbed in my work. We are strange companions." Suddenly he laughed and his face became vivid and warm. Tindómion found himself smiling.

"No apology is needed and I wish to thank thee." At the other's raised brows he elaborated: "The King told me thou didst fashion my sword."

"_Gurthdur._ Even had I not met thee, I would want my cousin to wield a fine blade."

"It is more than fine, lord Celebrimbor. I am honored." Tindómion drew it from it's sheath and presented it, hilt first. The smith closed his fingers around it, sweeping it up.

"All blades have characters. Some are eager, some unwilling, some long for blood and others love to dance in contest. Gurthdur will drink blood, son of Maglor, it waits for the testing. As dost thou."

Startled, Tindómion received it back and returned it to it's housing. "Thou hast foresight also?"

"I only know what weapons tell me as I make them, cousin - Gurthdur rests until war comes."

As his guest left the house, Celebrimbor raised a hand and then folded his arms. He said, to the silent, graceful presence which drifted into the room behind him.: "A shadow lies on his soul as on mine. We may repudiate our fathers acts, Lintalómë, but we never escape the shadow of them."

~~~

There were few secrets in the palace, and the argument between the king and his mother was soon public knowledge. Erestor said nothing, but Borniven and Rosriel were determined to reap sympathy for her treatment and Tindómion walked straight into the harvest even while his mood was still pleasant from his meeting with Celebrimbor.

Gil-galad was in the training grounds with Elrond and Vórimóro, but Rosriel's court gathered to talk and murmur in the late afternoon, drift apart and speak to others. The talk was not of the king's outrageous suggestion that he proclaim Maglor's son his heir; that would never be spoken of lest it give the misbegotten pup idea's above his his station. But the rumors that Tindómion would lead Gil-galad into the same sinful union as his father rustled through the hallways and gardens like blown autumn leaves.

He walked through the gallery above the entrance hall into cloud of courtiers who fell quiet as he passed through them. They could not have made it more obvious that he had been the subject of their conversation if they had declared it with trumpets. Borniven was standing with his sister, their dark heads together and they looked away with expressions that shouted disgust.

Heat crept up Tindómion's cheeks, for ever within him was the knowledge that he harbored an attraction toward the High King which the Laws proclaimed sinful. When people looked askance at him he thought now of that transgression, not his bloodline. That others had participated in such liaisons did not make it acceptable, it still flouted the Laws which the Valar had laid down when the first Elves reached Valinor. It was the duty of all to bring forth children into the glory of Aman, and two men, or two women could not produce children. It was said now that such unhallowed couplings would result in the violent deaths of those who indulged in them. Those rumors were traceable to Rosriel and her adherents. The Queen-mother encouraged marriage – or celibacy.

Tindómion strode through the now silent company and ran up the wide flight of stairs toward his own chambers. As he set his hand on the door it swung open. Surprised, he pushed it inward.

Rosriel was standing at the writing table, Erestor at her shoulder.

''_What in the Hells art thou doing in my rooms?_'' he demanded.

''I may go where I wish in my palace, _Fëanorion._ And certainly when I believe that one within it would imperil the High King and his realm.'' Rosriel showed no sign of embarrassment at her invasion of his private space.

''_Would what?_'' Had he not been so angered Tindómion might have laughed out at her words.

What she thought to find he had no idea. He set down poetry here, made notes of his duties and wrote letters to his mother. There was nothing suspicious or incriminating in any of those subjects.

''Thy House is a cursed one.'' She halted an ell away from him, looked up. ''And I have lived with too much dishonor to see my son follow in the steps of his father. There is filth in thine eyes when thou dost look at him, as there was in thine damned uncle's when he beheld my husband.'' Her face clenched as if she had bit into something rancid. ''They wallowed in sin, yet Fingon would have been a good husband and king had he not been tempted by the House of Fëanor. He knew his offenses. He died from the weakness that crippled his heart. I will save Ereinion from that.''

"There was no weakness in Fingon the Valiant, lady !" Tindómion struggled with words, feeling both justly accused and furious at the denunciation of his House and Fingon.

"For men to lie together is an affront which stinks in the nostrils of the Valar and the One Himself!" Her own flared as if against a stench. "Their wrath lies on all of that ilk! Ereinion will die as his father did if he treads his path."

The malice was a raw and ugly thing in the room. Her hand lashed out and caught him across the face, then she flung the skirt of her bliaut over her arm and paced out, Erestor following her. The door remained open, as it had been all the time, for any ears to hear. Tindómion closed it, leaned against it, running his hands over his face, then walked to the table. Vellum was scattered over it's surface, poems mostly, a list of training armor to be replaced among the companions...

Guilt burned in him as he gave thanks that he put none of his most secret thoughts on paper. It was as if the act of writing them might give them form and reality. Unseeing, he gathered them together, looking up, his expression hardening as a knock came on the door.

''Enter.''

It was not whom he expected to see. This was Baesel, one of the two lords who had escorted Gil-galad south from Hithlum after the Dagor Bragollach.

''Istelion. The king asked me to come and find thee. I heard all that just passed.'' At the chagrin on the Fëanorion's face Baesel raised a hand and closed the door behind him.  
''Thou wilt know that Fingolfin arranged the marriage between Rosriel and Fingon?"  
Tindómion nodded curtly.  
"There was never love. And I for one do not believe that what I saw between Fingon and Maedhros was wrong."

Tindómion felt blood rising to his face. "I have not..." he began and then choked on his own words. "I have done nothing shameful, Lord Baesel."

"It would not be shameful, Maglorion." The way _he_ spoke the name was not laden with despite. "That it is looked on so is _ our _ shame, and yet it is said that among the Moriquendi who never saw Aman and were never given Laws by the Valar, such things are not uncommon. Think thou that there were not more loves between men than Fingon and Maedhros and Glorfindel and Ecthelion? They were kept secret because of the Laws. I am wed to a woman I love deeply, but I honored Fingon. Yes, by our laws it is wrong and doubly, for they were close kin, but the love was fierce and pure as flame. I think love surmounts all laws."

"Why dost thou tell me this?" Tindómion asked.

"Because Rosriel was right in one thing, although to her it is an offense: thou doth indeed look at Gil-galad as Maedhros looked at Fingon. And he too tried to hide it for a long time." Baesel set his hand on the door, watching the Fëanorion's discomfiture, hearing vellum crumple under his fingers.  
"Rosriel hated Fingon. It was an ill-made marriage and yet a necessary one, and it did give birth to our king. Many things were twisted by the Doom and that was one of them. When we brought Gil south he wept. He felt his father die, and the anguish has never left him. He still yearns for those he loved and who made him feel loved, for his mother never did. My wife and Borin's gave him more affection than his own mother. He was just something to be used and set against Fingon, save he loved his father too deeply. Gil-galad needs thee, Istelion, more than thou canst know. Remember that."

"I am kin and his loyal Companion..."

"What dost thou see when thou dost look at our King?" Baesel asked. "That? A King? I still see the child who was shut away with his maids and told that he must not disturb his father lest Fingon be angered."

"What?" Tindómion's own childhood had lacked the company of other children and a father, but he had never lacked affection. He could not imagine his mother not loving him.

''Ereinion, her Scion of Kings, whom she wanted to use and have him force Fingon from the High Kingship.'' Baesel's jaw was hard. ''I would take him to my wife and she would sing to him and he would sleep in her arms. Fingon was often told he slept or was playing. When he saw his son it was in her presence, and the child was well-nigh mute lest he transgress, and scarce spoke a word. When Fingon discovered what Rosriel was trying to accomplish he proclaimed that his son be permitted to see him at any time, and go with him anywhere. Gil loved his father. He will never stop grieving for him.''

Tindómion dropped his head. "I did not know that. I cannot imagine it - I believed Lady Rosriel was mad with jealousy. My mother said it must be a terrible thing to live with - knowing that one's love is not requited."

"She never loved him and whatever she says, Fingon never shamed her, never openly did anything to feed the millstone of rumor!" Baesel said angrily. "He treated her with the utmost courtesy, but he made one mistake at the beginning - he rode to Himring to tell Maedhros he would marry, for he wanted no other to disclose it. He should have stayed to acquaint himself with Rosriel but he did not. She could have renounced the betrothal, but her father pushed hard for the marriage. I often think he soured her."  
"Thus when I see that child grown into a king, I still see the youth who lost his sire too young, who loved so deeply grief is engraved in his soul like the runes on a blade."

The door shut quietly behind him.

"Ah, Gil," Tindómion murmured into the quiet. "I did not know." He knew his color was high. What he felt for the High King was too obvious, and must have been from the first. He wanted to go now and comfort Gil-galad, hold him and..._No !_ People would be watching him now; indeed Rosriel must have been watching him from the beginning, seeing an echo of Maedhros' face in his own.

_Ah, Gil. She is right. Baesel is right. I do desire thee and how could I ever bring dishonor on thee?_~

~~~

  


** Chapter End Notes: **

  


* **_istel, istil _ \- Silver Light** (" Applied to starlight, probably a Quenya form learned from Melian" Nólë Parma Lambeo Areldava:The Lore Book of the High Elven Tongue)  
Nost na Lothion - The Birth Of Flowers

**Lintalómë is an original character written of by Amaranth. Her story is in progress but is not yet posted. She is setting the story in the same AU as my Dark Prince series and in that Lintalómë is linked with Celebrimbor.

  



	32. The Beloved

** The Beloved.**

~ Chains bound him. Muscles strained, steel against steel. Skin beaded with perspiration which gathered and ran down his back in thin streams.  
There was a hiss, the stench of burning flesh. Pain startled through the aether. Smoke wisped from where the brand had been laid on the base of the slave's back: a glaring Red Eye.

Sauron regarded it with a faint smile as he handed the brand to one of the orcs.

''Considering thy fondness for body markings, I thought it apt.'' His will clamped down, binding the struggling figure still further, as he snapped to those in the room, ''Leave me.''

The door clanged shut.

''It is thine own choice, my son,'' he murmured. "All this is thine own choice. It can stop whenever thou doth wish."

  
***

  
Sauron smiled at his son. His black hair was caught up and plumed down his back; but for that jet magnificence, he was naked.  
''Show me thy skills.'' He nodded to a hulking man with the dark skin of the Southrons. He proferred the swords which had been taken from Vanimórë before he entered the chambers.

Vanimórë could not kill his father. Sauron was too powerful. And even his destruction could not have seared the hate from his son's heart.  
He took the scimitars. He had forged them himself and the slim, faintly curving blades drank at the torchlight, passed through the air in strokes which left blurs of light trailing like afterthoughts. He flicked his wrists sharply, releasing his hold and as the weapons rose, he slapped each of the hilts. The swords whined as they spun through the air, and then Vanimórë's hands snapped out and grasped the hilts. The smallest miscalculation and he could have lost fingers, sent the weapons spinning across the chamber. Now they sat in in his negligent clasp, and the air still flickering with light.  
His face was expressionless as he repeated the action with one sword; the scimitar viciously thrummed across the room. There was no sound as the head of one of the orcs fell.

_ He_ is _good,_ Sauron admitted to himself, with a smile of satisfaction.  
''Not merely a toy. A weapon.'' He leaned forward. His son did not flinch under his regard. ''_ And my slave._''

''Yes, my Lord.'' Vanimórë's voice was as impassive as his face. Sauron had never heard him scream aloud, not since his first violation by Morgoth. But he felt pain, fury, sorrow, felt them intensely. Sauron's three-cornered smile mocked. He beckoned with one long hand.

The violet eyes flicked sidelong to where a child stood, gagged and bound, tears runneling the small face. Vanimórë stepped across to his father.

''Kneel,'' Sauron murmured and sat back, to enjoy the service of this most dangerous, most helpless of his servants.

  
***

  
The night was one of storm. In the chambers the only sound was the buffeting of the winds about the walls. Elrond, though sundered from his twin by the ocean, kept vigil as Elros, first King of Númenor, gave up his life. The Peredhel held to him in his mind until, like a hand releasing itself from his own, Elros' soul slipped away and was gone.

He bent his head, loss like a wound within his heart. Gil-galad laid an arm about his shoulders. Tindómion poured mulled wine, knelt before his friend.

"Even through all these years when we were apart...I have never felt alone." Elrond took the cup and drank, choking a little. Tears slipped from under his lashes. He turned his head into the king's shoulder.

"Thou art not alone," Gil-galad whispered. "We are with thee."

But he knew that feeling, of a beloved soul gone into the dark, of being utterly helpless to make appeal against it, the aching emptiness which filled up with unassuagable grief, spilled over in tears only to refill endlessly: a spring which would never run dry.

"I thought knew what my brother's choice would mean and yet I did not, not truly, until now."

"Trust in the One. For surely at the end all will be made right and those who have loved be reunited, even those whose fates have taken them beyond the world."

And Elrond silently wept.

Later, as the storm blew itself into dawn, they drew him to his bed and lay with him, one each side, offering the proximity of their bodies, the sympathy of their souls. There was nothing in it of desire, only of the love both bore their friend and they enclosed him with that affection as he drifted into restless sleep.  
Thus were friendships deepened with empathic understanding of loss in those years.

Tindómion's love and need for Gil-galad grew until it became something he lived with as a Mortal Man might endure a disease which pained him yet would not kill him and give him peace. He was closer to the king than any other, yet between them was a fine and invisible barrier which he would not cross. He would not wrestle naked with Gil-galad nor join him in the baths, and when he sparred, it was as if he were fighting off desire.

Yet in all other ways they were almost as intimate as lovers. Both were tactile, warm-hearted and the sexuality in their touches, even their shared looks, was obvious to all. Tindómion had become accustomed to the whispered hisses from Rosriel and her adherents, and held his innocence to him like a shield, knowing that he had done nothing wrong in deed. Withal, he was prey to all the jealousies and uncertainties of one who loves and must needs hide it. Gil-galad attracted maidens as honey attracts insects, and any noble who possessed an unwed daughter sought to put her in his way. Others, although they might deplore the blood of Fëanor which ran in Tindómion, were willing to overlook that since he was the favored companion of the high king.

Tindómion accepted his King's reason for not marrying even as he accepted Elrond's. Both were unwilling to engender children who might be cursed or, in Elrond's case, would bear the burden of choosing the life of Men or Elves. Elrond had already lost a brother, the thought of losing children to a Mortal's death was abhorrent to him. And thus those three who formed a triad in the great court were unwed, and Rosriel watched them closely as a cat.

  
***

  
Lindon had prospered and grown in the Second Age. It seemed that the Valar, having taken up arms against Morgoth, had now forgotten the Outer Lands again. Rumors came from the east and south of the increase of Men who still followed the ways of darkness, and it was said that in wild places the orcs bred.

It was Galadriel, wisest of the Eldar on Middle-earth, who came to believe that there was one powerful mind of malice still in existance. Thus it was that many Noldor removed to Eregion, nigh to the ancient dwarf-hold of Khazad-dûm, for the Lady had foresight and knew that one day all races on Middle-earth would need to draw together.

Ost-in-Edhil was marvelous to behold. Thither went Celebrimbor and founded the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the People of the Jewel-Smiths. It was said that only in Aman before the exile had the Noldor ever excelled more greatly in their crafts.

The Elves of Eregion constructed fine stone homes among orchards, vineyards and tilled fields, and all was connected by a network of paved roads. Ost-in-Edhil itself was utterly different. Situated downriver from the confluence of the Sirannon and Glanduin, it was built upon a bluff of granite and looked westward where the Glanduin opened into a long lake, called Estelin. A traveler riding from the east would gradually climb upward and see at last the gleam of the marble city, the copper roofs of the three towers and bronze dome of the Council Hall.  
Seen from afar the capitol resembled a mighty ship facing the westward lake, for east and west, the city grew higher, like the forecastle and stern of a vessel. Within, three plazas stood in line, and from them rose tall, slender bell-towers resembling masts. All was faced with glittering white marble which caused the city to glow white in the daylight, and the setting and rising sun illuminated it a deep amber.  
The designs within the city were varied: balconies, cantilevers and wide spans with slender supports leaving space for many windows. The glass-workers of the city were unequaled, and cast their many-paned windows in gorgeous designs and gem-like colors. To see Ost-in-Edhil in those days, to see Lindon with its villa's and great palace and the thriving Haven's one would imagine that it might last forever.

  
***

  
The ship was prowed like a swan with the beak and eyes of jet and gold. Its lines were flowing, almost organic, and it seemed not built by hand, riding the sea-swell as effortlessly as a living creature.  
Where the Gulf of Lhûn opened to Belegaer, its sails snapped and bellied as it swung through the cliffs which towered overhead. A great gull cried as it wheeled above them, and then flew north toward Mithlond like a herald.

A spring mist was over the waters. It beaded in droplets on the long hair of the silent crew, settled like a mesh of crystals upon a mane that even in the grey air, gleamed molten gold. The man's hands clenched more tightly about the smooth wood of the railing, luminous ice-blue eyes gazing into the fog, not truly seeing it.

He took a breath. The scent of the land seemed rich and heady after the brine of the ocean. It was heavy with growth and dying. The Hither Shore. Ennorath.

He had been silent during the voyage. Standing at the rails, he looked down as if he could see through so many fathoms of water covering lands now lost, lands where he had lived and fought.  
And died.

Glorfindel had wanted to die. Too much had been lost.

When his soul took flight from his shattered body there was darkness and waiting until the Valar came, and before them Glorfindel had no defenses, nowhere to hide from their judgment.

''He can yet make recompense for his sins,'' a voice suggested.

He was shown Eärendil, shown that his own death at Cristhorn had been vital to Middle-earth. He was shown many other things: the Kinslayings in Doriath and at Sirion, the Silmaril borne to Aman and set in the Heavens, the War of Wrath. He watched as Morgoth was thrust beyond the Walls of Night.

''Laurëfindë...return thou!''

  
***

  
There was the sound first. A lyre was being played somewhere. Air filled his throat, his lungs. Light danced upon his lashes. Sensation after sensation cascaded over him, through him, burning nerves and mind, snatching at his new young breaths.

Touch...the feel of silk beneath him and something yielding, which his form gently sank into...odors, hearing...sight...

_ I was blind at the last..._

Above him spread the silver-veined marble of a ceiling, flowing designs inlaid in gold, silver, nacre, lapis lazuli, all the skill of the Noldor at the height of their power, melting gems to run into patterns which then hardened into ribbons and snakes and angles of gleaming colour. After the darkness the colors were astonishingly vivid. He blinked, confirming that he could see again.

_ I know this room..._

He felt the sinews of his body move smoothly as he sat up and reflexively he lifted his hand, the one which...  
_I drove my dagger into the Balrog. It burned through the gauntlet, into flesh and bone. _  
He touched his cheek.

His skin was unmarked.  
_...I died.... _

  
***

  
"Where are they?" Unblinking, he met the eyes which held Time and Fate in their blue-black depths. And no pity. No pity at all.

"That is not thy concern. Thou didst sacrifice thy life to save Eärendil, our emissary from Elves and Men who returned the Silmaril. For that we deem thee worthy to be given this second chance to make recompense for thy sins."

"My sins?" The words were soft; the eyes were not.

"Thou didst sin with Fëanor in Tirion itself, and then with others, and there was no shame in thee." Námo ground out the words and blackened them as they came forth. Glorfindel's spine stiffened. "Yet Middle-earth will need thee, the shadows grows and _some_ there are worth saving. Thou art released from my Halls to set foot there once again - unless thou wouldst refuse."

"Refuse? I think I will not refuse." Blue eyes met night-black. "Thou art patient, Doomsman. Thou wouldst not, in thy _goodness_ punish us when we dwelt in Aman, but thou didst no doubt rejoice when we died and our souls came to thy halls."

"We can wait," Námo agreed. "And then there is a choice: to repent or to go into the Void. _ Only _ because thou didst save the life of Bright Eärendil art thou brought forth."

Glorfindel felt as if he congealed into ice. _ The Void? _  
"Thou wouldst tell me – " He heard his voice come strangely breathless. "that those who have not _ repented _ are cast into the _ Void?_ With Morgoth? Has the One given thee that right?"

"It is not for thee to question us."

A flash of fire melted the ice. It lanced upward through Glorfindel and stiffened his body, exploded through his eyes.

"Begone," Námo snapped. "And consider thine offenses, before we meet again."

"Fëanor was right," Glorfindel heard himself say through the shock. "About everything. He saw thee as thou truly art. And now, _so do I._"

***

The ship sped on and now, as the gulf narrowed, steep green hillsides rose each side. The mist gradually lifted until it glowed suddenly white. Anor showed pallid as she burned off the rising moisture.  
Shapes appeared ahead: graceful white walls and buildings, quays, ships gently pulling at anchor.

There were figures on the quayside, and Glorfindel saw them turn as the ship, its sails drooping, slipped gently in. The mooring chain splashed into the water and a ramp slid onto the quay.

"My thanks." Glorfindel passed the crew of the ship, pausing to acknowledge each one before he stepped onto the wharf.

The strengthening sun glinted from his hair and the Sun insignia woven on his tunic. The circlet set upon his brow bore one peerless emerald.

One of the Teleri came forward. He was tall, and wore a long fine beard although his skin was unlined and his eyes bright under level brows. Those eyes traced over the tunic and rose to Glorfindel's face. Círdan raised a hand to his breast, then bowed.  
''Welcome, Glorfindel the Beloved.''

There was a sudden susurrus of whispers which followed like an echo, the name spoken again and again. The awe in Círdan's gaze repeated itself in the gazes of the others.

''Greetings, Lord Círdan.'' Glorfindel returned the bow with grave courtesy.

''No-one comes from Aman,'' murmured a voice.

''I do,'' Glorfindel said.

Círdan gestured. ''Come, lord."

And every man and woman on the quayside bowed as Glorfindel passed.~

~~~


	33. The Golden One

 

  
~ The double doors swung open on hinges which bore them so skillfully that one push from a hand began their soundless inward motion.

The high-vaulted hall was upheld by fluted pillars, the walls hung by tapestries, some in patterns of living things: plants, birds and beasts, others showing in bright detail stories from a terrible, glorious past. The floor was inlaid in alternating squares of ivory and indigo and these were set within equilateral triangles which showed the insignias of mighty Noldorin Houses. Above the dais a star-shaped window was paned in coloured glass. Under this was a chair carved from one block of stone, but then inlaid with molten silver and lapis lazuli which ran like streams in the shifting light.

The hall was not busy this day. A few close companions of the high king were gathered there, wine-cups close by and on the step below the dais Tindómion sat playing a harp. Gil-galad, leaning forward to say something to him, looked up as the doors opened. The murmur of conversation ceased.

The arrival's gilt-gold hair was intricately braided in the lattice structure of a noble house and woven into three thick braids which fell almost to his knees. The color of that hair matched the thread sewn on his green tunic. His colors. His emblem: celandine upon emerald.

Tindómion rose quickly to his feet. He was the son of a Gondolindrim woman, after all.

Glorfindel had never seen him before, but he knew the stamp of that face, and he knew just how unusual was that torrent of bronze hair.

He had been shown many things. Not all.

But his eyes fixed upon the High King as he bowed.  
''Hail, Gil-galad, son of Fingon. I am Glorfindel.''

  
***

  
In a smaller ante-chamber two figures sat and one stood. Elrond could not sit. He felt both delight and reverence as he looked upon Glorfindel's beautiful face. All the Noldor held the hope that those who died in Middle-earth would one day be reborn, but it was believed that these ones would never again set foot upon the Hither Shores.

And yet here was one who had died, a name of legend among the Elves.

He listened as Gil-galad asked the question: how had he returned?

''I do not know all, Sire,'' Glorfindel responded in his musical voice. ''A dark power stirs from the ashes of the War of Wrath."

''Elrond has foreseen it and others have spoken of a shadow in their hearts,'' Gil-galad agreed somberly. ''Yet Lindon is strong, as is Eregion, stronger than we have ever been since the Union of Maedhros.''

Glorfindel's ice-blue looked at him with compassion.  
''Yes. It recalls to me the glory of Gondolin, before its fall. We too, could not believe in an ending.''

And those words caused a stillness to fall upon the room.

Glorfindel rose then and took a step towards Elrond.  
''Thou hast thy father's eyes,'' he said. ''I see the House of Hador in thee, and the House of Fingolfin also.''

''The son of Eärendil is my herald and dear to me.'' Gil-galad said.

''Fanari has told me much of thee, lord,'' Elrond murmured.

''Fanari,'' Glorfindel repeated with a faint frown. "I know she came not to Aman."

''She would not go,'' Gil-Galad told him. ''She dwells in Harlond. Thou hast seen her son, the harpist.''

It was there in the voice, their expressions and in Glorfindel's own glimpse of that bronze hair and hard, fierce face.

''Who.'' He paused. ''is her husband?''

''She has none Lord Glorfindel,'' the king replied. ''Ah, then the tale is not known to thee. Perhaps it should be she that tells that story, however.''

There was a low keening in the room as the wind moaned in, stirred the rich hangings. Westering sunlight bled through the colored glass like melting gems.

"Tell me," Glorfindel commanded. "Fanari will understand."

And so Gil-galad and Elrond told what they knew, had witnessed; of Tindómion born of rape.

''Maglor's son.'' Glorfindel broke the great silence that fell after. The glitter of his eyes turned to Elrond. ''And thou didst see this?''

''Yes. We were but children, my brother and I. She was trying to protect us. I believed she would be slain, as so many others. After, when we learned what happens to those who are raped, we thought she would die.''

''So many years of yearning for him and her longings were finally answered.'' There was tamped down rage in the words.

"Istelion is dear to me. He is not to blame for the manner of his begetting." There was something in the High King's expression which caused Glorfindel to rein back his temper.  
A knock sounded on the door and Gil-galad called: ''Enter.''

Fanari came in with a strange look on her face. She had been lodging in the palace for a few days and had heard the rumors as she came from her chambers.

She did not believe them. No-one returned from Aman. From Tol Eressëa Elves could and did sail to Númenor, but save for the War of Wrath, none had come from Aman to Middle-earth. The murmur of Glorfindel's name, running along the galleries, shook through her, awakening old sorrow, but not for a heartbeat did she believe the whispers were true.

She was blinded a little by the infalling sunlight. Bowing, she stepped forward, her hand shading her eyes, and her motion ceased as if she came up against a wall of glass, her raised hand opening in a gesture of warding. She became still then, her eyes wide and fixed. One moment she stood thus, as if frozen, then fell to her knees.

''_Ah, Eru! Does Mandos release the valiant dead?_'' Her voice shattered. ''Glorfindel!'' She covered her face with her hands.

He raised her quickly. "The Valar had their reasons, Fanari." He kept the dryness from his voice. "I chose this. Look at me."  
she lifted her head.

''I saw thee die.''  
Glorfindel saw her flinch, the reflection of fire in her eyes. ''Do all the beloved dead walk again in Aman?''

He had no comfort for her. Her face grew more sorrowful.  
"Not Ecthelion? My parents? Turgon?"

Gil-galad had turned his head. "My father?"

"Is the doom not lifted then?" Fanari persisted, her voice bewildered. "Were the Noldor not permitted back to Aman? _ Why? _"

"Their time will come," Glorfindel said. There were echoes in his voice. "The Halls of Waiting are a time for us to reflect upon our...misdeeds, alone. Time must pass. Over a thousand years has passed here since Gondolin fell. I was called because my death gave Eärendil the chance to live - and it was he the Valar waited for." He looked at Elrond, not knowing why he skirted the truth, save that he could not have borne to see Gil-galad's grief. Not yet. "He lives. Thy mother also."  
Elrond closed his eyes and nodded.

"Misdeeds? Didst thou not all suffer enough, Glorfindel?" Gil-galad asked. "what more would they have thee repent of?"

A faint, hard smile touched Glorfindels' mouth.  
"In my case, sire, I am to repent of sinful union with another man." And he saw the shock and denial leap into the star-blue eyes.

"So...my father?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "I am sorry. All I know is that each are given a chance to repent." He saw the flick of a frown at that, as if the king ran over the permutations in his mind. "Thou art _so_ like Fingon," he said.

"In many ways, Lord Glorfindel. And I am proud to be." Gil-galad raised his head. "Be welcome here, be thrice welcome, even though thine advent is surely a sign of the ending of our peace." He stepped forward and they embraced.

  
***

  
Glorfindel paused at a door which bore on each side an insignia worked with metal and jewel into the stone. He recognized the fiery emblem of the House of Fëanor, but this bore also a harp wreathed in silver flame, with three burning white gems down its face. His fingers traced it for a moment, then he knocked.

After a moment, the door swung open, Tindómion framed within it. With leisure now to observe him properly, Glorfindel was doubly struck by the likeness he bore to both his sire and grandsire: the high, haughty bones of the face, the lustrous silver eyes. He was as tall as Glorfindel himself, with wide, straight shoulders, slim hips, and long legs. His expression was one of defiant haughtier, but upon seeing who stood at his door, he stepped back and bowed, hand on breast.  
''Lord Glorfindel.''

''Tindómion Maglorion.'' Glorfindel returned the bow.

''Please enter.'' Tindómion stood back and closed the door behind them.

Glorfindel had ever considered Maglor the the most tender and tolerant of the seven brothers, loyal to Maedhros and a buttress against the too-fey temper of the others. He had been shown Maedhros' fiery death and grieved bitterly. He needed none to tell him that at the end, the burden of the Oath had been intolerable to the only surviving sons of Fëanor.

''Why dost thou look at me so, lord? Dost thou see the doom which they say still lies on my blood?'' The demand was so antagonistic that Glorfindel thought: _ Another Fëanor,_ even as he snapped back: "Look to thy manners! I would know thee, Maglorion, for thy father was a dear friend, as thy mother has been since her birth! The blood of Fëanor has been hated, reviled and all but lost and withal it is too great for despite. But thou doth seem to despise it."

Their eyes locked like wrestlers, and then Tindómion turned away, paced to the window. Glorfindel watched the braced tension in him and stepped soundlessly forward. The shoulder under his hand was hard as stone.  
''I knew Maglor well,'' he said more gently. ''I knew Fëanor. I see both of them in thee.''

  
***

  
The great fortress rang with music that night as they held feast for the one returned from Valinor.

"The Balrog Slayer!" Some-one cried, lifting a jeweled cup in salute and Glorfindel turned, fixing his eyes upon the speaker. He had heard that a few too many times this evening.

"There were many Balrog's in Gondolin," he stated. "Ecthelion slew Gothmog and died himself, Tuor slew them, and many others whose names have been forgotten, save by a very few."

"But thy death did save bright Eärendil!" protested the man whom had spoken.

"Any other would have done as I did." Glorfindel's eyes were otherwhere, and as they returned he saw that the eager speaker looked deflated. He said, more gently: "Nonetheless, thy welcome is gracious and I thank all of thee." He lifted his goblet in answer, too much the courtier to be discomforted by the attention that his every movement and word garnered.

He was likewise too used to these gatherings not to take his own measure of the company, and see that not all were delighted by his return. That was not his concern. He was here because one day he would be needed. His hatred of the evil which had destroyed so many he loved burned in him like a lightning strike which did not fade.

_ What evil moves now? _ he wondered as he walked the gardens, pausing to speak with any who approached him. Children and youths stared at him speechlessly, their parents regarded him with a deference and awe which might have been a source of wry amusement at any other time. But he was disoriented in those first days. All he had known in Middle-earth was lost, drowned under Belegaer.

_ And why me? _ he wondered. _ Many were the Eldar who went down in death and valor in Beleriand. _

The sky was paling and Eärendil dominated the last fading stars as he followed the silent request in his mind.

_ Ah, Gil-galad, I wish I could have come to thee with the Noldor of Gondolin and Hithlum and of Nargothrond, but those days are gone, and Tirion is not what it was; empty lie the great houses, and the palace where Finarfin rules is like a hearth when the fire has gone out. _

The King was in his ante-chamber. He was clad only in a simple robe belted at the waist. His hair was unbound, drawn over one shoulder in a mass of liquid darkness, and he reminded Glorfindel so strongly of Fingon that his heart clenched. Opposite him, Tindómion was plucking his thumb softly down the string of a great harp. He had played earlier that evening. His voice was Maglor's.

The guard closed the door behind him and both Gil-galad and Tindómion rose.

"I thank thee for coming." The king gestured to a seat. "Istelion, wilt thou mull wine?"

For a moment there was no sound but the hiss as the poker was plunged into the wine-jug, and the gentle pour of the liquid. Glorfindel took the cup and bent his head.

"How can we make this easier for thee, Lord?"

Gil-galad's question was so unexpected that Glorfindel paused with the cup to his mouth and then set it aside.

"Thou hast come like a legend out of the past and all look at thee as if thou art a Vala, but everything thou didst know is gone. They already say thou art a weapon sent against some terrible evil which stirs far away, that the Valar sent thee."

Glorfindel raised a hand. "I did not come for the Valar Sire, is that not clear? This is supposed to be a penance for me, to consider my..._ unhallowed _ desires. I chose to come, for I loved Middle-earth. If I can be of use to thee, I will."

"Use to us!" It was Tindómion who spoke. "Thou art our battle-standard if war comes."  
Glorfindel smiled a little at that.

"For a thousand years we have known peace," Gil-galad went on. "The men of Númenor have returned to our shores, and we have friendship with them, they build ports and trade with us. Many of those who fought in the Wars of Beleriand returned to Valinor and those who yet dwell here and fought in those wars would not wish to see such again. But both Galadriel and Elrond have presentiments that new evil rises far away. I trust their foresight. We maintain an army. And thou wert a Lieutenant of Turgon. Wilt thou take that position again, lord Glorfindel?"

Glorfindel looked at the high king and then at Tindómion. An eager light was in both their eyes, and despite his rebirth he felt far older than they. Their metal had not yet been properly tested.  
It would be.

"Yes," he nodded. "I will be honored."

Gil-galad rose, "There is something thou shouldst have." He crossed to his bedchamber and returned a moment later with something laid across his palms. The sheath was oxblood leather tooled in designs of a rayed sun, but it was not, of course, the original one. In the pommel gleamed an emerald surrounded by a starburst of yellow topaz.

Glorfindel's eyes widened. The hilt slid into his palm and he drew _ Sarambar _ forth. The runes swirled down the blade in running fire.

_ I am Sarambar, blade of Laurëfindë Los'lóriol. Bitter shall be my stroke and bitter my fate._

"Lord Tuor took it from..." Awe tinged the king's words, "from thy...body, which Thorondor recovered. Before he sailed to seek for Valinor, he gave it to Eärendil and before his last voyage it was sent to me."

"Sarambar," Glorfindel murmured. "Bitter indeed was thy stroke and thou didst serve me well." He swept it up, saluted his new king. "Thou hast my fealty, Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor."

  
***

  
The Elves had gathered in a cluster after emerging from the baths, towels wrapped around them, long hair falling down their backs. Their voices were clear and excited as they spoke, the words carrying easily to Tindómion as he walked slowly in, unbuckling his sword belt. Glorfindel had put these youngsters through their paces and had sparred with him also. Now every-one was watching Glorfindel and Gil-galad. Tindómion had come in now so as to wash before the combatants came to the baths.

"How was it, my Lord?" asked one of the younger men eagerly. "Did he disarm thee?"

"I would like to deny it, but he did." One of the chamber servants came forward to help him off with his training armor.

"My sword arm feels as if I have fought in a real battle all day," complained another ruefully, rotating his wrist with a wince.

"He is very, very strong," Tindómion affirmed, loosing the braids from his hair. "He is with the King now."

His words caused a concerted dive for their clothes as the Elves sought to dress and return to the training ground. None of them were yet one hundred years old, and had only recently been accepted into the army. To have a lieutenant of such legendary fame as Glorfindel, and to have been picked out by him personally, thrilled them to the core. Their attitude was one of hero worship.

"Any man who trains long enough can wield a sword," a new voice stated. "Do not forget, any of thee, that Glorfindel died because he was the lover of another man."

"That is foolish! he died because he met a Balrog which was twice his size - yes and he fought it and drove it before him before it pulled him into the chasm at Cristhorn!" The passionate words rang from Aeralagos, the youngest of those gathered. Tindómion had brought him to Gil-galad's attention himself, although his parents were not noble-born. But so determined had Aeralagos been to become a warrior and serve his King that he had approached the Fëanorion shyly and asked him if he might serve him and by extension, Gil-galad.  
Now his face was blazing with indignation as he continued: "I care not whether his lover was Ecthelion of the Fountain or Fëanor himself! It does not negate what he did, nor how he died!"

As Tindómion turned his head there came the ringing sound of a slap, and he whirled as Borniven hissed: "Watch thy tongue, stable brat! Is this what we come to? Wilt thou next be offering to serve Glorfindel in _ all _ ways? He was sent from Valinor, exiled by the Valar for his unholy acts and thou wouldst worship him as if he were..."

"A hero?" Tindómion interpolated, stepping between the two. "What wouldst thou call one who dies battling a demon, and by his death allows others to live? Which of us here has been tested, Borniven? Touch my squire again and _thou _ wilt be tested - by me!"

"His death was just! He earned it tenfold each time he lay in squalor with his lover! Ah, have we another here who is overwhelmed by golden beauty which lies over a cess-pool of filth? Since the King is pure and _ natural _ and will not mount thee, perhaps another will?"

A voice cultured and rich as the wine of Eregion spoke.  
"It is true that with practice any man may learn to wield a blade. But to throw around a bitter tongue does not require any skill. I believe thy name is Borniven and that thy skills do not lie in the warrior-arts, therefore I will not challenge thee to defend thy words with thy body. But I will require thee to speak of this _to my face_ and before others."  
Glorfindel snapped one arm expertly behind the other's back and propelled him from the room out into the daylight. By the time they reached the training ground, a crowd was following them. The expression on Gil-galad's face became stern as he watched them approach.

"What is this?" he inquired. "Lord Glorfindel? Borniven? Istelion?"

"Perhaps thou wouldst like to repeat now what thou didst say in the baths?" Glorfindel released his grip. Borniven was livid with fury and chagrin – and not a little fear.

"Well?'' Gil-galad raised his brows.

"I said only that his death was just, sire!" The counselor's eyes darted about, seeking for any who might agree with him and finding no-one. None of his cronies were at the grounds this day. He moistened his lips hastily. "I said that any who defy the Laws merit death and that he was sent from Valinor, banished from its hallowed precincts for unholy practices! And that he would seek others to corrupt here!"

Those gathered fell utterly silent.

"Thou didst _dare_ to insult one who has come to us from the Halls of Mandos? who died as he did?" The High King's face blazed.

"Gondolin was doomed from the time it was built because two who lived there spat on the Laws which give us children and keep us pure before the Valar!"

"My father was the lover of Maedhros Fëanorion as I am sure Rosriel has told thee often enough!" Gil-galad thrust the words at Borniven like a spear point. "And I have told thee once and will again that the names of those who fought and died valiantly will not be spoken of with despite here!"

"He will bring doom on us, he and those who..."

"_ Be silent! _" Gil-galad rapped out. "As of this moment, thou art stripped of thy rank and all its perquisites, Borniven. Thou art no longer a counselor of Lindon!"

The man's eyes widened. His mouth tried to shape words which came at last on a strangled gasp of fury: "I will appeal to the queen!"

"To _what_ queen?" The power behind the star-blue eyes seemed to push Borniven back a few steps. "I have no queen, I never will have a queen! Go now, thou wilt leave the palace and its environs, and I do not want to see thee here again!"

"Thou wilt regret this, all of thee. Thou doth tread the path which will doom us again!" Flinging his cloak about himself, Borniven forced his way through the silent watchers and stalked away.

Gil-galad looked at Glorfindel. His face was aloof, impassive as a statue molded of white-gold.  
"I am sorry. Borniven has ever had these...opinions, but I will not suffer him to traduce thee."

"Ecthelion and I were lovers, yes,” Glorfindel replied evenly, yet his voice carrying like the call of a trumpet. "And it is also true that such unions are against the Laws. Yet I feel no shame."

Gil-galad laid a hand on his arm. "Shall we bathe? Istelion?" He flung over one shoulder like a challenge.

"I will come soon, sire, I need to speak with Aeralagos." Tindómion's face was bright with some unnameable, difficult emotion.

For a moment Gil-galad looked at him as if he might insist, then nodded and turned back to walk with Glorfindel.

"Thou hast been reborn and yet thy sword arm remembers all it's old skills," he observed.

A sudden, rich laugh warmed the tension of the air and Glorfindel murmured in the King's ear. "To be truthful, that surprised me also."

  
***

  
Tindómion smoothed a cool unguent over the young man's cheek, but Aeralagos was fuming with anger, not with pain as he continued to speak indignantly.  
"I do not believe that Glorfindel and Ecthelion doomed Gondolin, my lord! How can any look at him and believe that? So he lay with another man and a mighty one! Hah, Borniven could not meet a charging roebuck without flinching! Glorfindel and Ecthelion faced Balrogs! Fingon was slain by Gothmog, because he was not able to use his sword! Thou dost not believe it such things?"

Tindómion shook his head. "Like the high king, I do not think any love wrong, but it is against the Laws and that is enough for people to believe it merits punishment." He added. "And it may be true, if the Valar have pronounced it wrong."

"Then the Laws are wrong and the Valar too!" Aeralagos bit his lip, and glanced up as if surprised at his own temerity.

"They are not infallible. Was not Morgoth a Vala? But still, young one, thou wilt find many who consider it sinful. Do not be so eager to speak up thus and draw displeasure on thyself. I know thee, thou wouldst not have told me of Borniven's blow, thou hast too much pride. Now go, rest after this day."

"May I visit my parents, my lord? I wish to tell them that Glorfindel the Beloved sparred with me today!" His eyes sparkled irrepressibly.

Tindómion smiled. "Of course. Go."

He bathed in his room alone, leaned his head back under the pour of water and shut off the hot water faucet, drenching himself with icy spring water.

  
***

  
"Yes, we knew such love was against the laws."

Only one lamp shone half-shuttered in the deeper dark before dawn. Glorfindel's hair was radiant flame in the room.

Gil-galad leaned back on a long settle, Elrond at the further end. Tindómion sat on the carpeted floor, one leg drawn up, hands linked about his knee.

"Yet it was not unheard of. Before we came to Valinor, such relationships had existed. But the Laws set down that since they could not engender children then they were wrong."  
"Perhaps the Valar would say that such love was acceptable as long as it did not become physical desire. And that too was only supposed to endure for a short span of our lives. And in many it did, as if we believed what was told us so readily, so absolutely, that we became what the Valar wanted us to be - for a time. Except in some the fire did not die." He paused and glanced at Tindómion. "Thy grandsire. He recked nothing of any Law. He feared naught. His was a flame too powerful both for Aman and Middle-earth. It was he who re-lit the flickering embers in some of us - and they never died."

Gil-galad said, his voice weighed with memories: "Although I long to hear of those who are gone, I would ask thee to speak of nothing that brings thee grief, Lord Glorfindel."

"So much is drowned in grief," Glorfindel murmured. He looked at Tindómion, whose face brought Fëanor out of the Void, out of the past in love and hate and desire.  
_ Fëanor would never have anything less than all, damn him. Too terrible to love - one cannot grasp naked flame. What did he do to us? And now this one, lit from the same furnace - and still as potent, that strange weaving which began so very long ago, Fëanor and Fingolfin, Maedhros and Fingon, and now Maglor's son and Gil-galad. Sometimes it feels as if everything sprang from Fëanor - and too much did. _ ~

  
~~~


	34. The Shadow Behind The Sun

 

  
~ The dreams did not come every time he slept; he was free of them for years, centuries, but when they engulfed him he became some-one else: his father. He lived Maglor's life, experienced everything, every nuance of emotion, knew moments of joy, and many more of grief.

The oath he had sworn to find his father was not forgotten, but it had been allowed to curl to rest. Gil-galad's determination that Tindómion not bloody his hands, resulted in duties that bound him to Lindon. In any event, such a search would never be easy; the north was wild, and beyond the realm of Lindon it was unpeopled, little known, fading into the flat icy wastes of Forodwaith where only scattered tribes of Lossoth dwelt.

Tindómion believed Maglor lived and that, as Gil-galad had reasoned, his spirit reached out unwittingly and unknowingly, to his son who was cast into a turmoil where sympathy warred with hatred. He could not imagine what Maglor's life must be, or perhaps he could imagine only too well. He wondered if his hapless father simply drifted in madness, oblivious to where, even when, he was.  
A part of him wished the visions – for they were more than dreams – would cease, and by that he would know his father was dead, but on the heels of that thought would come a wave of anguish which brought hot, furious tears burning into his eyes. He imagined Maglor senseless to the elements, worn gradually to _fëa_ alone, and could not endure it. Through his eyes he had seen glory, and to know it had come to ruin was well-nigh intolerable.

Glorfindel saw that terrible Fëanorian love and hate in Tindómion from the first, seething under a polished lid, but it had flashed out when he confronted Borniven; a sword flicking from its sheath. Tindómion did not attend the feast-hall that evening, and Gil-galad asked Glorfindel to walk with him after, leading him to the gardens.

Tindómion was sitting in the garth under his bedchamber, and looked up as the two approached. The night was overcast, but his eyes gave back a glimmer. Their look was oddly disfocused, and even as he rose the King touched his arm, pressed him back down.

"Istelion, I want thee to tell Lord Glorfindel about thy dreams."

There was a moment of silence. Silver eyes met ice-blue, then Tindómion said almost inaudibly: "I dream his life...I see what he saw, feel what he felt...I have _been_ him speaking to _thee,_ in Tirion, in Vinyamar. At those times I not know whether I am him or myself! He torments me although he knows me not." He drew his hands through his loose hair.

"I feel it means that Maglor lives," Gil-galad murmured as Glorfindel's brows crooked.

"Thou didst speak to him at Lake Mithrim, after Fingon had gone, thy words were that love would prove stronger than death."

Glorfindel drew a breath. "Yes, I did. The ties that bind thee to thy father are deeper than thou knowest."

"I would they were not!" Tindómion snapped, then: "There are things which only he should know. Very private matters." He glanced at the King and then away and something in his expression caused Gil-galad to frown.  
"Excuse me. I would be alone for a time. Sire, my Lord." He inclined his head and then walked quickly away.

"They do not come often, but are so real to him."

"Maglor did speak with Ecthelion and I at Mithrim," Glorfindel confirmed. "Has he told thee anything else of what he has seen?"

"Little: The death of Fëanor was the first dream he had," Gil-galad said softly. "It struck him hard. I know when he experiences these things, for he is as thou seest him, not truly in the world, struggling to find himself after living as his father."

"Whom he hates," Glorfindel murmured. "And longs to love."

~~~

Tindómion poured wine, sat over it without drinking, shocked by what he had seen. It was so disturbing that he could not remain in company, and he could not possibly reveal it.

He had walked into the dream as if he donned his father's body, melded with it. Had he retained any impression that he did only dream, then he would have felt grief to see those who were gone down into death, Fingolfin, magnificent and unbalanced by the forbidden feelings he harbored for his dead half-brother, Fingon the image of him, ablaze with love for his cousin, Maedhros, beautiful and with the shadow of suffering under his skin. His brothers. His father's brothers...  
In these dreams he lived with the dead and when he woke he felt the wrench of sorrow might tear him apart.

He experienced _all_ his father had. And he understood. He had seen Fëanor, felt the irresistible, magnetic force that aroused him and shocked him beyond measure. He had asked Gil-galad if his father had loved another male, and the King had said that he did not believe it to be so. Of course. How could Maglor have admitted incestuous desire?

But it was not of that he was thinking now.

As his father he had sat in a great hall while Fingon and Rosriel spoke their vows of marriage. He had followed Maedhros' from the feast to the ramparts. Fingolfin had come and lead them to his son's chambers, where he had drunk a heady, strange essence mixed into wine which set his body flaming with undirected lust. He had gone with the High King to the door of Rosriel's chambers, felt Fingolfin's hands loosen his hair, heard him breathe the words: _''So like him.''_ and he – Maglor – had turned and looked at his uncle, sorrowful and glorious and they had kissed, both one another and he whom was gone.  
And then at his father's call, Fingon had come to the door and Maglor had entered the dark room and taken his place on the wedding night, and other nights after that.

It was not spoken of save once. There were no sly jests, no triumph at how the duplicity succeeded so very well. The lust had been imperative, without love and it had left Maglor – and now his son – feeling empty and unsatisfied.  
In the times when he ached, _burned_ for Gil-galad he found himself wishing that Maglor had known Fëanor's passion. He had not, of that Tindómion was certain. 

As for Rosriel. she did not know, had never guessed. When he dwelt on her hatred toward him, which had become a thing bitter and virulent, he was tempted to fling the knowledge in her face. He controlled the desire brutally. No man claiming honour could reveal such a thing. 

It had shown him however, that as far as he understood love, Rosriel had never loved Fingon. She had wanted to control him. And as for her son...Tindómion thought of Baesel's words to him long ago:  
_ "I still see the child who was shut away with his maids and told that he must not disturb his father lest Fingon be angered." _  
Now he understood those words, and the pity and love Maglor had felt for the child Gil-galad meshed with his own hungers until it became unbearable. Gil-galad had loved his father and been taken from him, lived under his mother's aegis until he came into his true stature after the War of Wrath. Perhaps he loved his companions so fiercely because he had been reft from Fingon, and never known a mother's love.

Tindómion could tell no-one. When his unmarried state was alluded to, when he found himself on the end of the loathing in Rosriel's eyes he understood it. Her husband had loved only one person in his life, and that one a Fëanorion. He and Gil-galad were both links in the chain of fire between the houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin.

Glorfindel knew. Those lucent eyes saw into him as easily as he himself might read the disingenuous face of a child. Yet he said nothing.

A dark hand closed about Tindómion's heart and something choked in his throat, a grief he had never known, a fear he had never considered. It slipped away before he could grasp it laving only the taint of sorrow.

He could not ask for advice and would not. He was bound by love, and the determination not to bring harm or despite upon his king. And thus he had to simply endure. What if it were true that such _unhallowed_ relationships were punished and brought destruction upon those who engaged in them? Was that simply malicious rumor? But what of the deaths of Maedhros, Fingon, Glorfindel and Ecthelion? terrible deaths of fire and pain.

_What if it is true? And my father, who desired his own sire? If he is not dead he walks in madness and grief, separated from all those he loved. He scarcely lives!_

What was there but to tread the narrow edge between a deep friendship which he did not wish to loose, and the plunge into admittance of his love and what would proceed from that, rejection at the least and disaster if it were to be reciprocated.

  
~~~

  
The long, golden years unfurled like an oriflamme.

Little news came over the Towers of Mist, but twelve hundred years after the beginning of the Second Age, a traveller arrived in Lindon alone and without escort, asking to speak with the high king.  
He named himself Annatar, Lord of Gifts and also Aulendil - servant of Aulë, and claimed to be a Maia. How he had arrived in Middle-earth was not known, nor would he reveal it, but certainly it had not been by any ship which had put into the Havens.

He was very fair, as might be expected, his eyes lavender, his hair pale. He spoke with a soft, rich voice and his manners were courteous when he was brought to the Great hall and Gil-galad.  
He said he had much to teach the Noldor who elected to dwell in Middle-earth, implying that he sympathized with them, and was not altogether in agreement that the Valar chose now to leave them without guidance.

The room was silent as he spoke. Not far from the High King stood Elrond and Tindómion. Neither wore armor, but swords were belted at their waists as was customary. From the great window of colored glass, spatters of light fell upon the visitor, staining his face the red of blood.  
The high king's eyes narrowed a little, and then he turned to his warriors.  
''Have provisions made and escort the Lord Annatar to our borders,'' he ordered, and took three steps closer to the visitor, until he stood eye to eye.  
''The Valar choose to turn their backs on us. So be it. Here in Lindon we flourish and in Ost-in-Edhil the Gwaith-i-Mírdain are supreme in their crafts, and have excelled without the help of any from Aman."

For a long moment, nothing stirred, not even breath. Tindómion's fingers curled about the hilt of Gurthdur.

''Istelion, Elrond.''

They bowed.

"I am deeply grieved not to earn thy trust and friendship." The voice sounded regretful, yet patient. "Yet the choice is thine. Thou wouldst profit greatly, but," he shrugged delicately. "this is thy realm and I will abide by thine edicts."

Horses were waiting in the outer ward. Annatar mounted gracefully, settling his fine robes. A ring flashed on one finger, louring red.  
"A pity," he sighed as he looked back as the towers receded. "There is much I could do here."

_He is not so calm as he seems._ Tindómion glanced aside and met a look of wry wisdom.

"Son of Maglor, surely thy hands are capable of much skill, like thy mighty grand-sires?"

''My hands are at the service of my king,'' he answered, stonily polite, turning his face ahead. "And I am a warrior, not a craftsman."  
Annatar chanted suddenly, soft as if singing a song to a child:  
_ The Silmaril doth burn so bright,_  
Above the earth, within the night,  
On lonely shores a lost son sings,  
Of fallen glory, death of kings,  
The Flame is gone into the dark,  
And left nought but a shattered heart. 

Tindómion's eyes burned up like a fire of bitter thorns, questions and rage exploding in them. The tension cracked creating between he and Annatar, a charge which was almost visible. And then Annatar smiled. It was a smile of singular charm.  
"It is not wise, Fëanorion, to refuse _any_ knowledge, no matter how it comes."

Tindómion's lips parted. He felt Elrond's _No!_ crack like a whip into his mind and choked down the words, urging his mount ahead. He did not speak again until they had discharged their duty, and Annatar rode into the east.

''He mocked me!'' he snarled as they watched until the tall figure was beyond their sight, blotted by the oncoming night. "Could he have helped me find my father?"

"Wouldst thou trust him? What would he ask of thee for such a service? No. I fear the price of his knowledge, my friend. The King was right to send him forth. There is cold in that one."

Tindómion turned his mount back toward the sunset. "Cold...and red fire."

  
~~~

  
"Gil?" Tindómion asked when he returned. "What didst thou see in him?"

The king looked at him. "I did not want him here." He laid a hand on one tense shoulder. "Elrond said he spoke to thee."

"He...chanted a rhyme of my father, intimated he could help me find him."

Gil-galad frowned, his fingers tightened. Almost Tindómion turned into his embrace, and set his teeth against the urge. His mind reached out, but the king's mental walls were up, denying access to his thoughts.  
_ What art thou not saying, my Star? _

"If thou art meant to find him thou wilt, when the time is right, and without the aid of this Annatar. He goes to Eregion, doubtless. Well, Galadriel is wise. Wilt thou ride to Ost-in-Edhil? I would like to know how he is greeted. Thou canst take messages to the Lady, and to Lord Celeborn. Perhaps thou wouldst like to visit thy cousin?"

"If it is thy wish."

"My wishes...?" Gil-galad laughed without humor. "It would be well to go, I think, my friend."

"I would Glorfindel were here," Tindómion murmured.

"Yes."  
Glorfindel had taken a detachment of young warriors away to train, sleeping and hunting in the north.  
"I will speak with him when he returns."

  
~~~

  
After the long ride from Lindon, Tindómion came to the massive planters in which flourished two giant holly trees, the symbol of Eregion. Beyond these lay an amphitheater, game-courts and an oval track, for the Noldor enjoyed testing their physical prowess in competitions

Riding over a stone bridge, Tindómion approached the lower section of the city, and the North Gate where mail-clad wardens greeted him and took his horse. He climbed a flight of shallow stairs that brought him at last into the city and walked the wide road lined with villas until the reached the house of Galadriel and Celeborn. Their mansion was built upon the side of the great granite bluff, all the rooms facing westward and was of brown travertine marble. It was a beautiful dwelling, but nothing out of the common way in Ost-in-Edhil. The color and grandeur reminded Tindómion of his mother's descriptions of Gondolin.

He was told the Lord and Lady were in council, and said that he would return later after visiting Celebrimbor. Besides, Ost-in-Edhil was a wonder to behold and he usually relished his visits. It was primarily based on the Noldorin tripartite geometry, but other designs overlaid it, though the grid pattern of the streets was more orthodox. It was something only the most sophisticated minds could fully appreciate, as were the multitude of building styles and materials used within it.

The strangest things within Ost-in-Edhil were what Celebrimbor called _ortani_, or lifts, whose workings were simple enough but which seemed without worth to Elves who could climb high flights of stairs without concern – indeed the Silvan Elves laughed in amazement. But it was said that they had been created for the dwarves, and the lifting of heavy blocks of stone into the walled city. Many Elves used them as moving balconies, watching Ost-in-Edhil open below them as the _ortani_ climbed upward.

Celebrimbor's home, _Osteledan,_ stood alone on a rock outcropping connected to the main city by one bridge. His colours were primarily the blues and purples of azurite and porphyry, and at night lanterns set about the perimeter caused the palatial villa to gleam a luminous blue.

A servant ushered him in and offered him wine, but said that Celebrimbor was at the Mírdaithrond at this time and not expected back until nightfall. Tindómion, who knew that his cousin sometimes did not come back to his home and sleep for days, took that as a guess not a prediction.

"Wouldst thou wait for him, my Lord? He would be pleased to lodge thee, if thou hast no other arrangements."

"I would not abuse his hospitality, Danil."

"It would not be an abuse." A clear voice spoke from the window, and Tindómion turned at the entrance of Lintalómë. On his previous visits to the city, Tindómion had seen the man once or twice although had never spoken to him. When the Master-Smith had removed here, his friend had chosen to come with him.

There was something feline about Lintalómë as he stepped into the room; it was in the grace of his long limbs and the strange eyes which were clear gold. The color was as unique as the lavender of Annatar's, but unlike those were not so disturbing.

"I thank thee. I am Tindómion Maglorion, Lintalómë. We have not yet formally met."

"And yet I know thee. I greet thee in Celebrimbor's absence." He moved to pour wine. "Thy cousin may be some time."  
The dulcet voice was calm, but the words were strung on a thread of tension.

"Gil-galad sent me to see how the one who calls himself Annatar was received here," Tindómion said. "He would have arrived but days ago."

Lintalómë straightened, holding out a goblet. His face was expressionless.  
"He was well received by _all_ the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, but not so welcomed by the Lady Galadriel." The faint shrug was ambiguous.

"I have not yet seen the Lady."

"He came promising to share his knowledge with the smiths. I have rarely seen Celebrimbor so...stimulated." Lintalómë's words held something which might have been annoyance. Or a wry laughter.

"Thou doth not trust him either," Tindómion stated. "Gil-galad turned him away from Lindon. I am surprised that he was permitted here if, as thou dost say, Galadriel did not welcome him."

''The Gwaith-i-Mírdain are powerful here. They grow ever more so." With one lissome movement Lintalómë swung away to the long balcony. The southerly breeze lifted his hair in a streaming black banner. He laid one hand on the balustrade, and Tindómion saw that it was rigid, that there was a tautness in the set of his shoulders.

"Thou hath...misgivings?"

"Yes." The one word was bald. A turn of the head and the strange eyes met his. "Since..._Lord _ Annatar arrived there has been silence between the Lady and Celebrimbor. And between he and I also."

Tindómion thought of the rumor that Celebrimbor harbored a deep and unrequited love for Galadriel, and wondered if this was the cause of Lintalómë's restlessness: jealousy of Galadriel and now of Annatar? He knew that feeling well enough in himself and felt sudden sympathy. Perhaps Lintalómë was one of those few Elves who, like he, found themselves in love with another man, and could do nothing to quench the desire.

Lintalómë had turned away again, drawing a cloak of silence about himself. Tindómion sipped his wine, then set it down, opening his pack and drawing out a sealed letter from the High King to Celebrimbor. He would leave it here and hope to meet his cousin some time in the next few days.

He glanced up to speak and froze in shock. Lintalómë still stood upon the balcony, but now he was not alone. He had been joined by a tall man, and though his features were obscured, Tindómion knew his cousin.  
The two were locked in a kiss so passionate that Tindómion felt heat burst through his pores and consume his flesh. Astonishment held him motionless as he watched Lintalómë's hands draw themselves through Celebrimbor's hair, run down his back, cup his buttocks. One long thigh slid up over Celebrimbor's hips...

On occasion, Tindómion had come upon trysts in the palace gardens, seen men and women embracing. He had never felt envious or lonely, only glad that in this peaceful land people found love and came together; it was a testimony of faith in the future. But this wild and erotic embrace between two men spiked liquid heat into his groin and hardened him. He thought of Gil-galad...how many times had he envisaged just this? he and the High King pressed together as if any space between them were too much?

Without conscious thought he left the room, not seeing where he was going as he crossed the bridge, not knowing where he steps took him until he found himself in one of the High City's gardens.  
At a fountain he splashed his face, then cupped water in his hands and drank, allowing the piping of birds, the music of the running water to restore some measure of calm. Slowly, his erection dwindled. He willed it to, as he had many times when he was brought to this state by a mere glance from Gil-galad.

The shadows were lengthening when he rose from the bench to return to Galadriel and Celeborn's house – and realized he had left his pack at _ Osteledan._

He cursed, then considered that there was nothing very urgent there. Gil-galad's letter to the Lady had already been delivered. He hoped that Celebrimbor and Lintalómë would assume he had left out of tact, not run from shock or abhorrence. Shock there certainly was, but also a pure envy that two men should feel free to express what he longed to and dared not.

  
~~~

  
The High City boasted many fine inns, and the houses of the most noble families of Ost-in-Edhil. Tindómion took chambers in the _Estelisse,_ bathing and changing before eating a light meal. As night fell, the city became a glowing net of many colors. Elves did not follow the sleep-patterns of Mortals, and so the gardens, the baths the market places and of course the Mírdaithrond were as much frequented as the day.

Celebrimbor had shown his cousin the Halls of the Jewel Smiths, which were constructed within three triangular buildings. The work fascinated Tindómion: the hot and cold forges, the different halls devoted to various metals and materials, but he did not have his cousin's obsession for the craft. His own loves were music and martial pursuits, although Celebrimbor had been his teacher in the smithing of swords and the making of armor.

The Mírdaithrond lay outside of the city, toward the East and Tindómion considered going there, but doubted that his cousin would be there. It seemed that he had another fierce love.  
Would Annatar be there, he wondered, as servants cleared his meal away. He finished his wine, pinned his cloak and walked out to return to the house of Galadriel and Celeborn.

  
~~~

  
The Lady looked, as always, white and regal as she greeted her guest and gestured for him to sit. Celeborn, her husband, inclined his head courteously although it was common knowledge that he had no love for any of Fëanorian blood. In her hand, Galadriel held the letter from Gil-galad and smoothed it out as she sat, the lamplight shimmering in her golden hair.

"Tell me." Her voice was deep and smooth, but its timbre was silver rather than gold, and clear as melt-water. "Where was Glorfindel when Annatar arrived in Lindon?"

Tindómion frowned. "He was not there, lady, he had taken a contingent of warriors north, they were away for a sennight."

She nodded as if she had expected this answer.  
"A coincidence, or perhaps not, that Glorfindel, the only Elf to be reborn and come back to Middle-earth, should not be there when this servant of Aulë arrives?" Her delicate brows rose. "I will share my thoughts with the High King. But the Gwaith-i-Mírdain..." She rose in a sweep of silk. "One comes purporting to be from Valinor, one who has served Aulë – though _I_ do not recognize him from Aman – willing to share his knowledge. Celebrimbor." Her eyes met Tindómion's. "Is an Elf of great passions."

He commanded the traitorous blush not to rise to his cheeks under Galadriel's penetrating gaze.

"Factions are forming here. To have refused Annatar entrance and welcome would not be in the best interests of Ost-in-Edhil. Thus he was greeted most eagerly and he will not be removed without...opposition, I fear."

"He has made his presence so indispensable already?" Tindómion asked incredulously.

"So it would seem," Galadriel responded levelly. "Were there any with..._ influence_ over Celebrimbor I would encourage them to use it before his obsessions overwhelm him. I believed thou wert like thy grandsire, but it seems that some of Maglor's temperance runs in thee, Tindómion."

He was uncertain if this were praise, censure or both and he rose to leave.

"I will see thee before thou doth depart, Tindómion," Galadriel said, and he bowed and left the mansion.

  
~~~

  
He laid aside the harp as the early rays of the sun brightened the chamber, surprised that the night had passed so quickly. Rising, he rang the bell-pull and ordered wine and fruit, then bathed. The tray was waiting as he came from the bath and he sat down to watch dawn rise over Ost-in-Edhil as he ate.

The soft sound of something hitting the floor behind him brought him swiftly from his chair, and he found himself looking into the clear golden eyes of Lintalómë. At his feet was Tindómion's pack.  
A faint, teasing amusement seemed to dance in the other's gaze for a moment.  
"Thou didst leave something behind, Lord Tindómion."

"I thank thee." Lifting the pack, he laid it upon a table. "Did Celebrimbor read his message from the king?"

"Yes he did, and he will give thee a reply."

The silence lengthened as Tindómion wrestled with his embarrassment. He opened the pack and took out the messages while trying to appear calm.

"Thou wert not _ truly _ disgusted by what thou didst witness." Lintalómë's voice deepened to plush velvet.

"No." Tindómion was discomfited by the acute and unblinking gaze. "Thou didst know I was there."

"Would it matter to thee, if any-one saw _thee?_"

Images burned up in Tindómion's mind: Gil-galad, wanton and wild, lips and bodies joined in powerful striving...He ruthlessly crushed them, and the effort made his jaw ache. He felt shaken, his skin afire.

_Is it so obvious, or dost thou simply listen to the rumors. And oh, they have foundation even though it is only in my thoughts that I commit any sin. _

"No," he replied honestly. "And it is Celebrimbor's home, after all. I was simply surprised."

"Because it is known that Celebrimbor desires Galadriel? That he made her the Elessar? Surely thou doth know thy cousin is Fëanorian enough not to heed what people say? If they wish to misconstrue things, why, he will let them."

Tindómion gestured to the wine. "Please, drink if thou wilt. And I thank thee for returning this to me."

Lintalómë moved to the table.  
"Thou doth love the high king, didst thou imagine that it could be thee and he together?" The murmured question caused Tindómion to choke violently on his wine. He coughed as the other, gleaming with amusement swatted him hard on the back.

"Of course I love the King, I am one of his Companions." He sounded defensive, hated that he did, and it drew a musical laugh from Lintalómë. There was something faintly derisive about his expression although he expected more from his lover's kinsman than denial and retreat. Tindómion said quickly: "The High King is concerned about this Annatar."

"As am I." Lintalómë's expression became instantly hard, hinting at perhaps heated arguments between the lovers.

"He disturbs thee because thou dost not trust him, or because he claims Celebrimbor's time? Do not take that amiss, I wish to know: what dost thou feel, Lintalómë? From Annatar?"

The clear eyes stared into the swirl of wine in the goblet for a moment and then rose, catching the sun like coins.

"I do not know what I feel, in truth. Annatar is hidden from me; he has a mind like metal. There is no way through that wall." His smile briefly returned, a whit taunting. "I can draw Celebrimbor from the Mírdaithrond and see that he...relaxes." The bend of the mouth was richly sensual. "But Fëanorions...! Once thy mind is set upon something it is obsessed to the point of madness. And Annatar is fanning that fire like a pair of bellows."

"He has been accepted into the Gwaith-i-Mírdain? I may find him there?"

The slender brows rose. "He is and thou may, if that is thy desire."

"Yes." Tindómion's mouth set. "I wish to speak with him." ~

  


~~~  


  


  
** Chapter End Notes: **   


  


Osteledan - Fortress of the Silver Fist - Celebrimbor's home  
Mírdaithrond - Halls of the Jewel-Smiths  
Gwaith-i-Mírdain - People of The Jewel-Smiths - a school, guild and brotherhood. In Ost-in-Edhil they achieved the pinnacle of accomplishment in Middle-earth, with the aid of Annatar ( Sauron ) and fell to ruin.  
Lintalómë - lover of Celebrimbor and creation of Amaranth, whose stories of him will be forthcoming  
The Elessar was a green stone made by Celebrimbor for Galadriel and later given to Aragorn in the Fellowship of the Ring. According to sources the original Elessar stone was made by Fëanor and given to Maedhros, but lost.

  



	35. Betrayal Would Taste Of Wine

** Betrayal Would Taste of Wine **

~ "I am Tindómion Maglorion, come from the High King in Lindon."  
The guards at the gatehouse of the Mírdaithrond bowed and stepped aside.

"Thou art known here, Lord Tindómion. Enter as a friend of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Whom dost thou seek?"

"I wish to speak to Lord Annatar."

"A message will be sent to him, if thou wilt wait and take refreshment?"

He was lead to the East Court, a serene place of fruit trees and private alcoves where people might sit and speak. A jug of wine and two goblets of gold-tinted glass were set on a table. Tindómion sat but did not drink, his hands clenched. The only sound was the hush of the wind and the music of fountains.

"This is a pleasure, Maglorion." The suave voice brought him to his feet. He had not heard the other approach. "One I did not expect."

The Maia was smiling slightly; it might have been a simple expression of greeting save there was nothing simple about Annatar. He could scarcely have formed a greater contrast to the dark, predominantly Noldorin folk of Ost-in-Edhil. As golden Glorfindel stood out in Lindon, so did Annatar here.  
Tindómion knew that the Ainur could take any form which pleased them, or walk unclad if they wished. It seemed that Annatar did not desire to blend in with the population. His hair was very pale and the geometric designs of his braids drew it back in a latticework over his skull until it wove into the thick fall which hung to his thighs. His robes were rich red and black, girdled with links of gold. Reaching out to pour from the wine jug, the ruby in his ring gleamed in somber warning against the whiteness of his skin.

"How may I help thee?" he murmured.

"Does a Maia not know?" Tindómion responded tartly and Annatar laughed, a mellow sound.

"I think one would not need to be Maia to see the unanswerable questions in thine eyes, son of Maglor." He spread his long fingers. "Thou art known. And thou hast come here for thine own reasons."

"In Lindon thou didst speak of my father – and of the Void." Silver eyes met lavender ones in a challenge like a leveled lance. "I would understand the meaning of the riddle."

"Is there a riddle? Surely it is plain? The Oath of Fëanor consigned those who swore it to the Void did they not fulfill it..."

"No."

"And it is known to all that thy father has wandered out of thought and memory, that his voice is heard on shores where no Man or Elf treads, or perhaps it is the lorn crying of the gulls that people hear in their sleep...?"

"_No!_" Tindómion hissed the word through his teeth. "I will not have that, I desire there be more than that! I will have a better conclusion than _nothing!_"

"Some things are fated, _Fëanorion._" Annatar sounded indifferent.

"Couldst thou find him?"

"I would very much like to find Maglor." The white teeth showed for an instant. "Whom would not? The last of the brothers, self-doomed to wander in grief."

"Enough !" At the flare of anger Annatar stilled and, looking into his eyes, Tindómion saw for a moment... _Ages,_ felt a heat burn from his body as if he were a melting forge. And then the opacity slammed back.

"Thou dost not trust the Ainur, any of them. Their Laws are harsh and constricting. Perhaps thou art not alone. Perhaps some believe that the Elves of Middle-earth should make their own Laws and lead their own destinies." Annatar moved closer and Tindómion refused to retreat. Their breasts almost touched. "After all, why should the Blood of Fire be tied to outmoded mandates made without true comprehension of the hearts and souls of the Firstborn of Eru?"

Tindómion felt his pulse beat in his veins, he did not even blink.

"I have been refused entrance into Lindon. Were I permitted – were some-one to persuade the High King that my intentions are entirely honorable, then perhaps I could find thy father, Maglorion." The elegant hands came up and rested on Tindómion's shoulders. Their touch felt like hot brands. "Then thy long years of waiting can be over and there _will_ be a different conclusion, one which in a sense, defies the doom, defies the Valar themselves. As I have said, there are some – not many – who also believe that the Elves should live as they please and not fear what lies on them if they turn from the stern Laws which enclose their lives."

"And in doing so embrace punishment." Tindómion said. "And also doom others. If a price has to be paid for rebellion then it should rest upon one alone."

"What price?" Annatar asked softly and laughed. "The Valar have succeeded in their aim then. They have no _right_ to pass judgment. Dost thou not see? The Laws they laid down were made because they were _jealous_ of the passion and freedom of the Firstborn, and desired to curtail them, to see them live as they did, without fire, taking pleasure in the marriage bed only. _ Emasculated._ They cannot engender children unless they mate with one of the Children of Eru, as Melian did. Thus they sought to have the Eldar breed and fill Valinor with more offspring, all to serve them, enrich their lives behind the Pelori and become as they have become, juiceless, little more than servants. Valinor was to be filled with Elves working to beautify it, their lives mere extensions of the Valar, but without _passion_, and never, ever to let their... desires rule them. And so they let it be believed that a curse lay on those who did stray from the narrow paths of the Laws."

Tindómion was silent, his mind startled into confusion. Annatar had – so he claimed – come from Aman. Whom would know the truth of this if not he? He heard and saw nothing for a moment, borne up on a wave of exultation. Was _this_ the truth after all? Was there no punishment, only the rumored threat of one?

"The Noldor ever burned too brightly for the narrow trammels of Aman." The voice was insidious, it wove into Tindómion's mind as wine flowing into a cold stomach. "Gil-galad would do anything for thee..._anything._ Ask him to permit me into his realm and I will find thy sire and thou shalt find...so much more."

Their eyes were so close Tindómion could feel the dust of the Maia's breath on his mouth.

"Whatever the truth," he said huskily. "A High-King of the Noldor cannot afford to deviate from the Laws, lest it ruin him in the eyes of his people."

Silence. A glint like humor in the glass-clear lavender eyes. Tindómion stepped back, turned and strode away.

"I hope we may speak again, Fëanorion." The words seemed to touch his back as he walked. He did not pause.

He came to himself wandering through the cultivated lands which surrounded the city. On his right marched vineyards, a complex of white buildings proclaimed a winery and under shaded trellises were seats and benches. A servant glided toward him and bowed, recommending a light wine the colour of sunlight. It was tart citrus on the tongue, cold as snow-melt. He sat over it as the thoughts clashed like wrestlers in his mind.

_ What if it is truth indeed? What if there was no wrong in loving him – no wrong, only political suicide. But it could be secret, something shared between us. _ His eyes burned. _ Why should it be? And how could I? It would transform me. I could never hide it, and I do not even know if he reciprocates, only that he accepts such liaisons. _

He closed his eyes, saw Celebrimbor and his lover embracing, ravenous and fierce. His imagination followed it to it's conclusion and he shivered and tossed off the wine in one long swallow. His urge was hard as a fist in his groin and there was nothing to do but wait it out, turn his mind to other things, douse his hungers with reason.

_It could never be, even did he feels as I do...if any discovered it – and they would – the after-clap might cost him his Kingship. _ He raised his hand to the serving-man and sat back, forcing his thoughts into those less dangerous waters.

_Gil-galad would do anything for thee...**anything ** _

_How dost thou know, what didst thou see?_ he had wanted to demand. And Annatar had waited for that question.

_Ask him to permit me into his realm and I will find thy sire and thou shalt find so much more..._

_No... I cannot._

_To find my father..._

Those eyes, gems which gave nothing back. A mind like metal, Lintalómë had said. Yes, that was indeed what it felt like; he could read nothing, but he could sense power, intelligence. Had Annatar in fact _not_ been sent by the Valar but chosen to leave Aman?

It was tempting to believe so. Too tempting.

He rose an hour later, walked back to the city. He would speak with Celebrimbor this evening.

  
~~~

  
"What can he show thee more? Hast thou not created wonders here?"

The meal was over, the servants had cleared the table and the Elves had repaired to a smaller chamber. Celebrimbor seated himself on a long settle, Lintalómë beside him. Unconsciously they drew closer and Celebrimbor laid his arm along the back of the couch, letting it drop to his lover's shoulders. He showed no trace of embarrassment as his fingers toyed with the black hair. Tindómion affected not to notice.

"My grandsire created wonders in Valinor, the _Palantiri_ the Lamps, the _Silmarilli._" His eyes shone with a light almost fanatic in his fierceness. "They can never be re-made, but Annatar has also served under Aulë. What I have done here will be naught in comparison to what we _will_ do with his shared knowledge. He and I can work together. It might be possible to..." He fell silent, fixed upon an inner vision.

"To what?" Tindómion glanced at Lintalómë, saw he too had turned his head, was regarding Celebrimbor with the expression that was surely a reflection of his own.

"Works unimaginable...and yet we _will_ imagine them. And create them."

"And what does he want for this... meeting of minds?"

Celebrimbor's eyes sharpened. "To see the fruits of one's dreams made manifest."

"Gil-galad does not trust him, neither does Galadriel. What if he is banished from Valinor? What if his presence here brings the wrath of the Valar upon thee?"

"The Valar have forgotten us and better so." The words were snapped. "We elected to remain in Middle-earth and they have turned away from us."

Tindómion rose. "It seems to me that once before the Noldor hearkened to one who offered them _knowledge_ – Morgoth Bauglir."

For a moment he thought his cousin would flare into rage. The grey eyes flashed like steel. And then Celebrimbor laughed.  
"I think that Annatar is not Morgoth, Istelion."

"I am glad I amuse thee, cousin."

Celebrimbor's expression sobered. "We must not be as children. Ah, Istelion, thou hast the mind of thy father! All music and sinew it is! Annatar _understands!_"

"Mayhap thou art right. I am no craftsman, yet I am no fool,either. I do not believe that knowledge is evil, but I do not believe thou needest help from any Vala or Maia!" Tindómion raised his hand to his breast and bowed, leaving the house before his own temper could unravel.

  
~~~

  
It might have been created for the purpose.

The land was walled by two ranges of mountains, save for one great gap to the east and another in the north-west where the Ered Lithui and Ephel Duath flung savage arms toward one another and failed to embrace. Beyond the eastern gap were lands where men had long fallen under Melkor's sway.

The gates which he raised were named the Morannon, and they were overlooked by two great towers, Narchost and Carchost, the Towers of the Teeth. Whom was there in the regions beyond to take note of the foundation of Mordor?

Men labored, orcs and trolls grunted and sweated to raise fortresses. Trains of supplies came through the eastern gap and in further south, around the great bitter lake called Nurnen, were the slave farms. Crops were grown there as they could not be in the north, for the active volcano had long rendered the plains about it barren.

A hot, somber land, yet it suited him well and already the foundations of a vast tower were rising by craft and labor, and ageless power was bound into them.  
His power.

"Do not fight me." The whisper wove into the staccato counterpoint of harsh breaths, the slam of flesh against flesh. "This could be so much more..."

He saw the muscles cord in the braced arms, and ceased his pounding for a moment, feeling the hard clench about him. Hot, so tight, so satisfying. He felt the inferno of hate and, because his son could not see him, he smiled before moving, harder, faster, until the pleasure took him and he released himself with a growl.

"Come," Sauron commanded and walked to the bathing room.

Long fingers washed him, cleansed his hair, dried him, offered a long robe of woven silk, poured a rich wine. Then Vanimórë stood, wet hair in coils to his knees, immobile as a statue, attentive as a slave, as his father sat back.

_ If he did not hate so much he would be weak, if he were not so intelligent a damned fool. But his hate blinds him and that is as well. I may fashion many things, but I will never equal this. _  
A tool, a weapon, honed a little more each day. Under the implacable hostility he sensed the questions which his son would not ask. Sauron could have laughed had he been alone, and within himself he did.

It was easy to hate something which was abominable, but as Annatar he had thrown his son into confusion. His acceptance into Ost-in-Edhil, his work there among the Elves, had sparked tiny gleams of hope in Vanimórë's mind. What if Sauron genuinely wished to aid the Eldar, what if he was there because he in truth desired to live among them and pursue his crafts? But then there was this land, _ Mordor _, the men of the east and south, the times he spent within the volcano, which seemed to respond to his will.

Sauron had watched his son waver and pushed him, intimating at respite, at love if Vanimórë would cease fighting him. He had struggled, stumbled and teetered, and withal there was no compromise. There was steel in him. He would not bend, would not permit himself to break.  
_ The best alloy I will ever blend. I forge him and he also forges himself - how ironic, my beautiful son, that thou art an architect in thine own fashioning. _

Far away, the fire-mountain muttered to itself as if it joined in Sauron's silent amusement. Then he laughed aloud, and saw the violet eyes lift to his. Orodruin erupted in blood red and gold. The air concussed.

"Come here."

The distant glare welled over Vanimórë's face, hard and sculpted as white stone. Sauron drew his thumb over the full mouth, poreless flesh. The outrageously thick lashes quivered. But, for all his spectacular beauty, Vanimórë looked deadly. He was.

"Kiss me," Sauron said softly.

No trained odalisque could have better mastered the arts of love. Vanimórë's loathing flamed white-hot and was hammered once more.  
Weapon of the Gods.

  
~~~

  
His dreams took him to the shores of Balar, his childhood, before he knew whom he was, before the hate and the desire. Great combers rolled in. Their drag back against the wet sand like sighs of repletion. To the west the sky was dark with an incoming spring storm, but on the isle the sun still shone.

He was alone, running for the joy of it, for the feel of the wind in his hair. Gulls wheeled overhead, tumbling snowflakes against the pewter-grey storm clouds.

He was sure he was alone, but then in the distance he saw a figure walking. His hair streamed out in an ebony banner.

Tindómion reacted as if spurred. The firm, flat sand raced under his small feet as he cried out a name. A mellow spatter of music came to him, touched his heart like a caress.

_"Adar?" _

Lightning cracked the sky, blue-white trails streaked from air into the sea in a trident of power, and Tindómion ran toward the harpist and could not reached him. His calls were drowned out in a roll of thunder...It faded into music.

"Adar!"

He jerked from sleep. The room was dark, but not with night. A storm had been building all that day and now, in the late afternoon, it was breaking. Walking to the window he breathed in the charged air, felt the cool gust of moisture laden air whip inwards. From the gardens came laughter and he looked down, seeing two women standing under the downpour letting it stream through their hair, soak their gowns. At last they ran for shelter, still laughing.

He had returned only that morning. His ride back from Ost-in-Edhil had been as swift as he could make it without tiring his mount. After speaking with the king and Glorfindel he left to bathe and change. He had not realized he had needed rest.

The storm was real, and had become one with his dreams. He imagined his father somewhere, drenched by rain, by sea-spray, alone, lost in his mind, and his hands slammed the window embrasure. A soft knock at the door brought his head about impatiently.

"Yes?" His voice was curt.

Glorfindel entered the room, argent-gold in the dimness. For a long moment he regarded the Fëanorion. His voice was gentle as he said: "More dreams?"

"Not like the others."

"Then what?"

"Couldst thou find him?"

There was an emphasis on the _thou_ which brought Glorfindel's brows together.

"Why hast thou not asked me this before?"

"I do not know...because Gil is right, I might kill him!" Tindómion felt strong arms go about him and leaned into them for a moment. "In Ost-in-Edhil, Annatar suggested that I might..._ persuade _ Gil to lift the ban on his presence here. That were he permitted here he might be able to find my father. He is Maia, after all. The things he spoke of...He said the Valar wish us to believe that we will be punished for...unholy loves but that it is untrue. That they are jealous and would see us live as they do in Aman. Thou hast said the same."

"I have said _ almost _ the same," Glorfindel corrected him. "But he lies. We are punished." His eyes were thoughtful, distant, the set of his mouth stern. "Very clever of him. He read those things in thy mind which ever eat at thee, and has well-nigh promised thou may have both."

"I will do naught which will compromise Gil's position here," Tindómion said. "I will not...cannot..._Hells!_" He pulled away and leaned his brow against the wall, hands braced hard on the tapestries. "But I considered it, Glorfindel...until the moment I saw him this morning. And I am ashamed."

"Ashamed of thy love?"

It was a goad and the Fëanorion reacted to it instantly.  
"I will _never_ feel shame for loving him!" The silver eyes were molten. "I am ashamed that I sought an excuse, _ knowing _ that Gil had denied the realm to Annatar. I wanted to see if I could _seduce_ him, change his mind. I dwelt on what that would entail. Yes, to seduce the one I love, to try and find my father, I considered treachery."

"But thou didst say nothing. Stern as steel thou wert when in his presence. Truly thou doth hide it well."

"Thou hast never advised me to...reveal my feelings." There was the hint of accusation in the words.

"My friend, I do not need to advise thee. I know why thou doth withhold. It is laudable. I also held myself aloof from Ecthelion for a long while." A flash of lighting threw his face into glowing relief, whitened the golden hair. The thunderclap followed it almost immediately. Rain fell in torrents and the drapes shivered in the wind.

"It was deemed wrong then. It is now. Even were it not, the idea is too firmly entrenched in the minds of the people for them to accept it and yes, Gil-galad might be forced to abdicate. I do not believe it is wrong, I never will, though I die again and my soul be lost! Why is _desire_ wrong?"

"Whether wrong or no, I have no choice. But I will never stain his name," Tindómion whispered, and then with pain: "I will not mar what I love."

"Love cannot mar, Istelion. But coming before Mandos as we do, we love against the laws at great cost."

There was a sudden noise as the door opened and the high king and Elrond strode in, both laughing, shaking drenched hair, their riding clothes clinging to their bodies.

"We raced the rain." Gil-galad looked straight at him, their eyes meeting like a kiss.

A smile bent Tindómion's mouth and he gestured toward the bathing room. "I will have clothes brought here."

"And hot wine." the king threw over his shoulder. "Wilt thou join us?"

"I have already bathed, Gil."

As the two entered the next room, he pulled on the bell-rope and asked the servant for fresh garments and wine. Murmurs of talk, interspersed with relaxed laughter and splashing came from the great bath.

Glorfindel laid a hand on his arm, his fingers closed in partisan sympathy.  
_Ask thyself this, wouldst thou not love him? If thou couldst wake from sleep and find the need, the love gone from thy soul?_

_ No! But it cannot be, even if he desired it. And I could never conceal it if he did reciprocate._

  
The storm brought coolness in its wake to everything save Tindómion's heart. Although he had resisted the temptation offered to him, it did not leave him; two desires which so neatly joined together, as a mason might fit together shaped stone.

Annatar was discussed in council, and the majority were of the opinion he had been sent forth from Aman for views which diverged from the Valar. Tindómion's report of his conversation decided them, although he did not speak of the Maia's views on the Laws pertaining to love of one's own gender. Why then did the King, Elrond and Glorfindel himself mistrust this Lord of Gifts? Perhaps because there was something both too plausible and too secretive about Annatar.

"Thou hast been of a dark mood since returning from Eregion," Gil-galad murmured one winter afternoon when a thin, cold rain wept down the glazed windows, and the fires and braziers burned against the early night. They were playing _Tar_ in his chambers, Glorfindel and Elrond talking quietly over spiced wine. Heavy seas reduced the number of ships coming from Númenor and the realm was quiet that winter.

Moving a polished amber disc, Tindómion sat back.

"If it troubles thee I will not ask thee to go again, though I believed thou didst like the opportunity to visit Celebrimbor."

"I do, Gil. An errand rider brought a letter recently."

"And also to me. Thou art close to him, and the rumors of Annatar's ascent within the Gwaith-i-Mírdain trouble me. It seems there is little Galadriel can do but openly show her disapproval."

Tindómion moved restlessly. "Celebrimbor told me I could not understand the passion of such craftsmen as he and his brotherhood – and Annatar."

"Istelion should not go," Glorfindel said unexpectedly. He rose from his seat and walked across to the pair. "It may not be wise."

"Why not?" Gil-galad glanced at his companion, whose jaw was clenched.

"Annatar all but offered to find Maglor if Istelion could persuade thee to rescind thine edict banning him from Lindon."

Elrond murmured something. Gil-galad's eyes widened, fixed upon Tindómion who came to his feet, tilting the board so that the polished counters slid.

"I have not done so and will not!" he hissed.

"Why didst thou say naught?" the king demanded.

"Because I would not do it. I would not so misuse our friendship. Glorfindel, thou dost dare to imply that I cannot be trusted?"

"No, and damn thy Fëanorion temper! The King speaks truly, this has been in thy mind since the summer. If Annatar suggests this again, still thou wilt refuse, and again thou wilt be tormented by it."

Tindómion's long fingers rose to his temples. "Why canst _ thou_ not find him?"

"I have tried." The calm revelation arrested the quick-burning rage. "His mind is hazed and lost and I am no Vala, Istelion."

Gil-galad rose and rounded the table. "I know thou wouldst not betray me, but why didst thou say _nothing_ to me?" His hand rested on Tindómion's back.

"Because I considered it!" Tindómion spun to face him. "I considered it. I still consider it, and I am ashamed!" He strode from the room on a storm of temper.

"He told thee, and not me?" Gil-galad slammed a hand against the table, sent the game pieces and board scattering. "Hells! Had I been in his position I would have been sore-tempted also."

He followed, glimpsed the flit of long hair about the angle of the passage, and called out, but Tindómion did not stop until Gil-galad caught up with him and seized his arm. The hall was dim, the lamps had not yet been lit. The only sound was the lonely drizzle of rain against the windows.

"How couldst thou not tell me?"

He was too close. They were too alone. Tindómion's heart tripped over, his body reacting to the proximity of Gil-galad, to the caress of the breath on his lips. He gasped savagely: "Would anything I did have persuaded thee to allow Annatar into Lindon?"

"I would have listened to thee and understood." Gil-galad's fingers closed on his arms. "I do understand. I would trust thee with my life - with my kingdom!"

"I will not betray thee," Tindómion vowed.

"I know it."

The grip loosened. Gil-galad rested his hands on the wall beside Tindómion's face.  
"I trust thee absolutely." The star-blue eyes closed for a moment; he arched back his neck with a long sigh. The gesture was shockingly inviting. A pulse beat under the jaw, the strong column of the throat was grainless as alabaster.

"I will not forbid thee to go to Eregion."

"I thank thee for thy trust."  
Their voices had descended to whispers. There was no space between them now, both had moved closer. Blood pulsed like a heartbeat in Tindómion's groin and he pressed himself back against the wall. Gil-galad's eyes burned in the gloom, his beautiful mouth parted. He tilted his head. The only time which existed was now, the only reality Gil-galad, the only thought in Tindómion's mind was to cross the narrow chasm, let himself touch and taste and _feel._  
_Feel..._ The arousal was not on his part alone. A shock ran through him at the pressure against his own erection. His hands moved to clasp the narrow hips, draw the King closer, move with him, slaking the ravenous hunger...

"Excuse me, Sire."

The voice jolted them. The Elf who whipped by, radiating disapproval was Erestor. He passed them without a word and vanished down the passage.

"I must go, Sire. And for thy trust, again, I thank thee."  
With the use of that title, Tindómion sought to distance himself. His long strides propelled him through the palace out into the chill night and nowhere was far enough. The ache in him was like a scream demanding utterance.

_He would have kissed me..._

He swore as he ran into the cold rain.~

~~~


	36. One Ring For The Elven-King

 

  
"Thou art as disgusting as thy father!"

Rosriel stood before her son, grey eyes so dark with fury they seemed as coals embedded in parchment.

"What art thou saying?"

The summons from his mother had come as he was reading a letter from Tindómion. He was gone, ridden off to Eregion in the night. Gil-galad had cursed under his breath. He should have gone to Tindómion's rooms, concluding what had so nearly begun between them, but he himself had been shaken. He could place the exact moment when everything within him had leaped toward the son of Maglor: the very day Tindómion walked into the Great hall and offered him fealty.  
The day they had raced to Ravensleap he had felt Tindómion's arousal, but he was still young then, it might be no more than excitement, and despite his youth, by the laws he should be wed and fathering children. His body clearly had needs.

But the centuries rolled on, and certain things became apparent to Gil-galad: Tindómion would not wrestle naked with him, nor bathe with him in the soldiers communal baths. He was either ashamed or afraid.  
And always there was the tap-tap-tap, like an unceasing drip of water, from Rosriel and her court...  
_ Any who break the Laws are doomed, thy father, Maedhros, Glorfindel, Ecthelion, how many others? Perhaps the Doom of the Noldor was not laid on them for the slaughter of their kin alone, but for unclean acts..._

Gil-galad would recall his father when in the company of Maedhros, and those memories burned away the doubt. It was no sin, whatever the laws might say. It was too good. Too right.

Thus they were close, the son of Fingon and the son of Maglor, in a way which only those now dead and whose blood they bore would understand. From Fëanor and Fingolfin, to Maedhros and Fingon, to this unspoken attraction which remained unexplored but was, to some, clear as runes writ on vellum.  
What Erestor had seen last evening and divulged to Rosriel had uncovered her worse fears. She had known, and watched as intently as a hawk for the moment when the lust which crackled between her son and Maglor's baseborn get drew them into sin.  
"To _kiss him! _" She drew a hand across her mouth as if to avoid spitting, wiping the words from her.

Gil-galad folded his arms.  
"Ah, now it is clear. In fact I did not. But I _ very _ much wish I had." The remembered lightning which had been ready to explode between them pulsed in his voice.

"Thou wilt bring down the wrath of the Valar upon thee!" she flung at him. "What of thy duties to thy people? Send him away, Ereinion! He tempts thee as that damned..."

"No more." He raised a hand. "I have told thee, thou wilt not malign Maedhros' name or my father's in my presence, no nor Istelion's either." Steel his voice and steel his eyes.

Her hands made grasping gestures as if she sought to pull words from the air, marshal arguments which he would listen to.  
"Maglor's misbegot son is _ evil! _" At his incredulous laugh she swept on: "None can deny a curse lies on the bloodline of mad Fëanor. I _know_ Maglorion tempts thee to sin, just as Maedhros tempted my husband! Were he not here...Ereinion, listen to me. I will find thee a wife! Marry and get children! It is the only way to show repentance!"

"I neither wish nor need to show repentance!" he flashed. "Istelion is my closest companion. Do not speak to me of my duty to my people, I know it. I have heirs. I have named them!" He paced toward her, not seeing her grace and beauty, only the acid which bled from her pores like an unhealthy sweat upon a sick mortal man. "Dost thou _know_ what it is to feel desire? Didst thou ever feel it for my father?"

"I did my duty as a wife." She lifted her chin in haughtier. "We lie together to create children, more is filth. Animals rutting !"

"Oh, thou hast all my sympathies, _ mother._" The words came through his teeth. "I _burn_ for Istelion. I want to devour him and be devoured!"  
She stepped back as if shrinking from something obscene, disgust twisting her lips as he whispered: "I want him all over me, inside me, possessing me. I want to bury myself within him and hear him cry out my name, master him and be mastered..."

Rosriel threw herself forward and slapped him. Her face grey-white with abhorrence, and her eyes glared.  
"Unnatural.... cursed as thy father...! _ Leave me! _Get from my sight! _Die and be cast to the Void! Elbereth curse thee!_"

"But first, Lady, I will ensure that I have known passion with my lover, which is something thou hast never known." He paused with his hand on the door. "If what I feel is wrong then it is more splendid than anything the Valar would endorse, and Arda is indeed marred beyond redemption. My father _loved Maedhros! I love Tindómion. _ Nothing thou canst say or do can alter what has been and what is. There are some fires that cannot be put out !"

  
***

  
He tried to vent his rage by joining Glorfindel to spar. Their blades chimed in increasing speed in the hard bright air as the morning wore on. There was a savagery to the king's attacks which Glorfindel met with a fierceness filled with empathy. He knew what provoked it. By the time the low sun reached its midpoint they stepped back, bowed to one another and walked to the baths. Gil-galad closed himself with his scribes and exchequer in the afternoon and in the evening asked for Glorfindel to come to his rooms.

"He ran like a stag startled by a hunters horn." The silver-blue eyes were fixed on the dance of the flames in the hearth.

"Such loves do bring punishment, Gil. Think thou he has not considered that in a thousand years? That is why he left so precipitately."

"And I have thought of little else. It is always there, under the surface. It always has been."

Glorfindel's hair caught the light as he nodded.  
"I have only known that once. There was no love there, but there was something more dangerous."

Gil-galad looked up then, puzzlement on his face. "No love? I thought Ecthelion was thy lover."

"He was. We were friends first, and then it became desire, but neither of us acted on it. It took another to show me what it could be. And after – Ecthelion and I were lovers, yet the love which could have been there was ever strained by that other, the fact that I could not see it as betrayal, that I was not sorry for allowing it to happen." A rueful laugh shook him. "Allow, I am not sure I could have prevented it. It was irresistible."

The fire spoke its ancient language in the silence which fell. Glorfindel felt the questions which thronged in the king's mind, which he was too courteous to ask. He opened his hands in a graceful gesture, releasing an ancient secret which had been known to so few, and he remembered other hands, elegant and graceful strong, each palm scarred with the facets of the Silmarilli. Hallowed by Yavanna, they had tried to burn their creator, yet the fire within them was something more brilliant by far than the light of the Two Trees; whatever Fëanor had intended, the light within the Silmarilli was the same as that which burned in his eyes.

"Fëanor."

He heard Gil-galad's intake of breath, brought his mind back from the splendor that had been burned to ash by its own potency.

"He touched me, I touched Ecthelion and so for a while we blazed against the darkness. What does it matter now? The mighty are gone. Shadows lie in white Tirion. It is a pale candle where once we burned." He rose, bathed in firelight. "Fëanor touched Fingolfin and Maglor, I believe. Maedhros, his firstborn, touched thy father, and Maglor's son touches thee. Fëanor was the fiercest of flames, and sparks leaped from him to others. Some were scorched and turned away, and some always burned. What lies between Istelion and thee is part of pattern, threads in an ancient weaving."

Gil-galad stared at him, the gems on his breast sparked with his quickened breathing.

"I felt it since first I saw him," he whispered.

"I saw it in them. I see it in the both of thee. The arc of fire." Glorfindel laid a hand on the king's shoulder. "Tell me: if thou wert lovers, could the both of thee ensure that no-one discovered it - and wouldst thou _want_ to hide such a thing? For I tell thee now, it is impossible - the language of lovers is not spoken only in the privacy of the bedchamber but in every look and gesture. I saw it with Fingon and Maedhros."

"It should not be hidden." Gil-galad came to his feet. "No. I would not hide it. I could not. But then we are at an impasse. To bring the anger of the Valar on oneself is one thing. To bring it down on another..."

"Istelion has said the same," Glorfindel said ironically. "Yes, the ultimate test of endurance is it not? I did not truly believe, long ago that there was any punishment."

"Then how dost thou know? Is it perhaps as Annatar would have it? A lie to instil fear and obedience?"

"Mandos spoke to me. Even if they would not raise hand against us themselves, the Valar wait for us to die in violence and then our souls are... held until the End."

"Then my father, Maedhros...? They are not together, they will not...be reborn?"

Nothing could have forced Glorfindel to look at the living image of Fingon and tell him that their fate was worse than to drift bodiless in the halls of Waiting. He could not consider it himself without rage near to madness, and he was utterly helpless. There was no appeal for those who did not repent. No pity.

"I have to believe that they will be, that there is mercy." And that was true, the Valar were not everything.

Gil-galad struck his hand against the wall. "No! It is wrong. Oh, father. _Father !_" He clenched his fingers, leaned his brow against his fist.

"Yes," Glorfindel agreed. "But who is there to tell the Valar that?"

  
***

  
It was a somber and cheerless journey. A wet winter, often Tindómion rode through the day under bitter rains. But the road to Ost-in-Edhil was well traveled, and he paused at inns to bathe and eat before traveling on.

He had run away. It was either that or seek out Gil-galad in his chambers. They could have discovered one another and the last barriers reduced to rubble. The morning would have found him transformed; he could not have concealed his full-blossomed love from the most casual glance. He was unsure if he could even erect that wall of pretense again, but he needed time and distance to calm himself.

He had no messages for any in Ost-in-Edhil, but was welcomed by Celebrimbor and Lintalómë. Asking the latter of Annatar, the Elf shrugged eloquently.  
"Celebrimbor and he spend much time speaking of deep matters," was all he would say. The insouciance of his reply was belied by the concern in his eyes.

Since he had no official errand in the city, Tindómion was at leisure, although he avoided accompanying his cousin to the Mírdaithrond since inevitably, he would encounter Annatar. But he did use the time to be conducted into the vast Dwarf-hold of Khazad-dûm. After a week of hospitality, and being shown the Mirrormere, which reflected stars even in the daylight, he was stunned by the majesty of the place. He sensed the pressure and immensity of the mountain over his head. It did not alarm him but it made him acutely conscious as never before of the tiny sounds beyond normal hearing, the minute shift of particles of stone, the groan of the earth's ancient bones. He felt relief when he came to Gates of Durin and there was no roof but the sky.

  
***

  
He was mad. His mind burned red with grief and insanity, the realization of unalterable doom.

The image was scored in his mind: Elwing falling back from the cliff, her fingers grasping the Nauglamir. The Silmaril blazing like his father's eyes, the white bird which had raced up to meet the sky, then flown into the west.

Her children were here, Elrond, Elros, young and terrified, they and the woman with them. For the briefest moment, some thought tried to make itself known to him, before it was obliterated by the rage and anguish which manifested itself in an act few Elves would ever perpetrate. And he felt only his release into her body, as ambiguous as when he had bedded Rosriel out of love for his brother and Fingon.

***

A cry tore between his lips as Tindómion sat up on the couch. The chamber was dark. Night had come while he rested. A rough southerly wind was buffeting Ost-in-Edhil. It was the one vision he had truly dreaded., and now it had come he felt shock and disgust hiss within his guts like acid. He closed his eyes, pressed the heels of his hand into to them and groaned.  
_ "Mother..." _ He rose unsteadily, crossed to the bathing room and splashed water on his face. He saw her face, fear and disbelief in her eyes, heard her words...he had _felt_ her...

His knuckles cracked against the marble wall and the skin split. Crimson stained the white stone, he struck again and again until the walls was smeared red, as if it were the face of his father.

_ I can find him. _

He became still at the words in his mind, braced his hands against the wall.

"I can find him, and thou may enact thy revenge - hast thou not always desired to slay him for his offenses, Fëanorion?"

He thrust himself from the wall, turned to face the one who had so silently slipped into his mind and his chambers.

"What dost thou _ want _ of me?"

"Nothing that thou dost not wish to give." The smile was subtle, the voice strikingly calm in contrast to Tindómion's goaded cry.

"Stay out of my mind! I care not that thou art Maia!"

"Thy thoughts are like thunder, son of Maglor. I hardly need to be Ainu to hear them." Turning, he walked into the dark chamber, uncovered one of the lamps and poured wine.

"I will not betray my King for thee," Tindómion stated emphatically.

"Would it indeed be a betrayal? So – Gil-galad does not trust me, Elrond Eärendilion does not trust me. The daughter of Finarfin shows her...disapproval. Yet what do I do here but share knowledge, help create things of use and of beauty so that Ost-in-Edhil becomes as was Tirion, yet in a place which is free, beyond the Laws of the Valar." The lavender eyes were brilliant as he moved closer. "Thou canst not know how far we have come, the paths which we have opened here, which seemed impossible. Thou wilt deny thyself, close thy mind to me because of thy love for the High King, this is true is it not?" Tindómion's eyes narrowed. "Gil-galad could be a King which none could challenge, and he and thee could love openly. As for the punishment which awaits both of thee...even were it true, art thou willing to live an eternity without tasting the sweet, hot cup of wine which is before thee. Wilt thou thirst all the Ages? In good faith I will gift him with something which will make him high king as long as Arda endures."

He drew something from a fold of his robe: a small square box of beautifully engraved silver – no _ mithril, _ Tindómion corrected himself, as the lid was lifted to expose a ring in a nest of velvet. This too was _mithril,_ a wide band set with sapphires and rubies which formed flame-like flowers twining about it.

"A Maia of Aulë can place some power within an object. A part of the creator is placed in anything one makes. Is not thy soul in thy music? The Silmarilli burned because the Spirit of Fire..." There was something odd in the voice, like the gleam of a knife blade lifting from its sheath. "created them and his _fëa_ was within them. It ever will be – wherever they are. If Gil-galad wears this, his rule will have no end...so it would be for _any_ who wore it."

Tindómion's eyes fixed on the ring. He felt his hand reaching out to touch it. There was a strangeness about it; it was not simply an ornament, it felt..._heavy,_ as if it bent the air about it. It was somehow greater than its size, as something vast appears small when seen from afar.  
His fingertips rested on it. The gemstones were flush with the metal, placed there with a delicate artistry, each jewel faceted and carved so that the light appeared to make the flowers move, sapphire for the House of Fingolfin, and blood-red for the House of Fëanor. The two intertwined.

"Yes, entwined, as thou couldst be, tasting joy for thousands of years. Is it not equally an offense to refuse the gift of love?"

The flowers shifted in the light, grew, shimmered in Tindómion's eyes, became images of bodies joined in wild ecstasy.

"Would not such memories last until time itself ends, would they not keep thee warm in the cold of the Halls of Waiting if thou shouldst go there? Or wouldst thou endure an eternity of regret? And thou wilt know peace also, for thou wilt have avenged thy mother."

Tindómion closed his eyes. Once again he stood in the dark passageway, Gil-galad pressed against him, both hard with lust...

"Hast thou not ached – _ bled _ in thy soul for him? Shall I tell thee what it is to possess one so beautiful, so strong...? It is like naught else, warrior against warrior, two flames that together become an inferno which nothing can ever quench."

This time there was no Erestor.

Their lips touched, at first with a flutter of uncertainty, but that was banished by the double thud of their hearts, the detonation which took them beyond the nervous gentleness of new lovers. This was need, frantic, urgent, blasting aside objections, laws, beliefs and caution. Gil-galad flung back his head with a groan as Tindómion's mouth bit and caressed his throat, hands dragging through the heavy hair, closing around the hard buttocks, drawing Gil-galad against him even as the king ground himself harder into Tindómion's erection. They were too ravenous to part. The exquisite sensation demanded satisfaction _at once!_. Rough gasps echoed in the hallway as they thrust, writhed, seeking more friction until they shattered...

"Gil..." A word like a sob.

  
***

  
Tindómion woke, throbbing with the release. One lamp burned. The wind howled about the inn. Heart racing, he lay back on the couch, struggling with the images: his father, his mother, Annatar, a gleaming ring, the high king...His flesh was hot, pleasure washed over him, pulsed within him, and he yearned for more, to possess in truth, become at one with Gil-galad. As the last sweet pleasure-remnants faded, the nagging pain he had been half unconscious of edged fully into his mind, and he curiously raised his hand. A strip of linen was bound about it, the edges neatly tucked in. He smelled the scent of unguent.

Shock slammed through him and he came to his feet, strode to the bathing room. He had struck the wall, punched it until he bled...the polished wall was clean...he threw open the linen hamper. Cloths had been tossed in, marked with red.

_What happened to me? _ Had he walked in dream, his mind enraged at Maglor's acts, and cleaned himself and the evidence of his fury before returning to the couch? And Annatar and the Ring..? No...he had been told that the Maia was away from the city on one of his journeys to find rare ores and minerals.

He listened to the wind for a time, then with a curse stripped off his breeches, stained by the ardor of his dream and washed, grateful that none could come into his chambers without invite. In Lindon, the closeness between he and his King permitted such unheralded entrances, though when he bathed he locked the door; he had become wary in such everyday matters, needing the armor of garments to conceal his bodies betrayal of lust.

  
***

  
"Little wonder Melkor desired thy grandsire to be his slave. Little wonder he hated thy House and wanted it. Maedhros was stronger than thou couldst imagine, Maglorion."

The air shimmered above the ring as a summer haze, yet there was no heat in the room. Under it, the ring gleamed, seemed to swell as it lay glinting on the bloodied cloth.

"Blood is a tie that binds forever; do I not know? Does my son not know?" Annatar's teeth shone white. "Thou art bound to him and thanks to thy passion, I would recognize him like a scent."

He stretched in languorous pleasure, thinking of the unfettered wildness of Tindómion's response to his imagined tryst with Gil-galad. That was how his son would be if Vanimórë ever loosed the rigid chains which bound him so absolutely. To _ be _ the object of all that hunger had flared Sauron's nerves to fire. A fierce interlude, and _most_ enlightening.

_ Ah yes, power can be transferred into objects, the Noldor have always known that, creating with their souls as well as their bodies. I thank thee, Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion. Perhaps I can open Lindon after all. Thy love for thy King and this ring will be the wedge that finds the crack. _

  
***

  
Like a shameful secret, the gemmed ring lay in a pack on the sumpter pony.

With the onset of spring, merchants and messengers from Ost-in-Edhil traditionally traveled to Lindon for the great Fairs. When the first Númenorean ships came in, the High Kingdom bustled with Men and Elves meeting, bargaining, buying and selling. Tindómion joined himself to one of these great trains of wagons, nobles and warriors to return to Lindon.

Annatar had come to him some days after his dream, and uncovered the ring. Tindómion had almost recoiled.

"Thou knowest this."

"I...had a dream of it." Too disturbed to be angry, he had looked into the pale eyes as if they held every answer he needed.

"Power calls to power, and it is in thy blood. With this, Gil-galad will become the greatest king in all Arda. He may do as he pleases, and none will dare to say him nay. Neither his bloodline nor thine lacks courage, son of Maglor. Wilt thou not grasp it? It is a great gift." His voice became silk and soft fire. "Fëanor went mad; so much brilliance lost forever, thy father wanders in despair not even knowing he begot a son. Thou wilt loose thy mind if thou dost deny thyself, if thy father does not pay in blood for his violation of thy mother – and then what is left for thee but regret for things never tasted, never done?"

  
***

  
Strange thoughts insinuated themselves into Tindómion's mind as he rode, cresting to a surge of fury. He saw himself killing Borniven and Erestor, taking pleasure in it, saw him bind Gil-galad with chains and flog him before taking him, making him bleed with the violence of possession. He saw himself as High King and Gil-galad as his pleasure slave...tying Rosriel's hands to a cart which pulled her through the wide ways of Mithlond as people jeered and pelted her with stones...  
At each image a thrill weltered through him, tasting of forbidden lusts and blackness. He became mute with the horror of what was happening to him. Had these desires only revealed themselves since he and Gil-galad had come so close to consummation, since he had dreamed his father taking Fanari without care or even recognition? What evil had lain dormant in him to be roused to such vile life? By the time the River Lhûn came into view he was afraid of what he might do when he came to the palace. He halted at an inn by the ford, sent a private message ahead and waited.

  
***

  
Glorfindel leaped lightly from his stallion, and patted the sleek neck as an ostler hurried across to tend to the its needs. There was no need for the warrior to announce himself; the molten-gold hair and ice-blue eyes were known from Mithlond to Hadhodrond. His question to the inn-keeper was answered by a bow and a nod, and the man lead his visitor inside.

"My thanks." Glorfindel knocked at the door, and at the swiftness of the response knew Tindómion had observed his arrival.

The letter had been unusual in that it was given to him privily. The last message from Tindómion had come some time ago. It had been addressed to the high king and written in a formal manner, merely stating he would return at the time of the Spring Fair. This private letter had a different mood entirely; it held a hint of desperation.  
And there was indeed despair in the silver eyes which turned to him. Tindómion looked fretted and disheveled, bronze hair loose, the fine lawn shirt roughly tucked into his breeches. Glorfindel had never seen him so and he stepped forward, clasping him, feeling his body rigid as armor.

"Glorfindel," Tindómion whispered. "Help me!"

  
***

  
"Let me see it."

The low, savage flood of words which had spilled forth all came down to this. It was here, a subtle scent of power...to Glorfindel it reeked of attar. He had sensed it even as he entered the chamber, but had allowed Tindómion to purge himself, explain what had brought him to this pass. An odd feeling shocked through Glorfindel's nerves as the mithril box was passed to him. He opened it slowly, regarding the ring, innocuous enough save for its undeniable beauty. Drawing it forth, he held it between thumb and forefinger.

"Annatar said this would make Gil-galad a great king?" he murmured, and saw the flush of shame on Tindómion's face.

"The greatest king in Arda, one who might do as he pleased without fear of _anything!_" Glorfindel heard the snap of the teeth on the words.

"And that is why thou didst accept it. Because as a king who could do _ anything,_ he need not heed his people, might openly take thee as a lover without imperiling his position?"

"Yes." Tindómion's voice was bitter. "That is exactly what I thought. The vision was of us as lovers, the acceptance of what we are, and the finding of my father so that I might slay him."

"And then the images came." Glorfindel rose, his hand clenched about the ring, his eyes shone as if white fire raged in his skull. "There is some power in this, Istelion – something insidious and dark. It may do precisely as Annatar says, but not without cost to whomever wears it."

"It is not me, then?"

"Oh, some of those thoughts are thine. In thy deepest heart thou wouldst wish to kill Erestor and Borniven, punish Rosriel and take Gil-galad with violence, but thou wouldst never act on those thoughts." Glorfindel reached out with his free hand, touched the flushed cheek. "Thou hast never done aught ignoble, indeed I think thou art so determined to prove thou art not thy father or grandsire, that thou hast held thyself on too tight a rein. There is a malign power in this ring which has brought these thoughts forth and magnified them."

He could feel it himself even as he held it, and set his teeth. He saw a great army lead by himself, ships built in Mithlond to carry warriors of Lindon and Ost-in-Edhil across the sea to Aman, to make war upon the Valar. He saw them defeated, forced to bring back those who had been damned, and saw those ones embodied once more, Fëanor and six of his sons, Fingon, Ecthelion and others who had dared to love, and been cast into the Void as filth.

The path to what he desired lay through throwing down Gil-galad, becoming a usurper, an aggressor, leading the Elves of Middle-earth to death.  
The room dimmed, the storm gold of his aura raged as he battled with his own temptations.

"No!" The air rang with his command. "Get thee hence! I _will _ not!"

He thought he heard laughter. When his eyes focused he found that Tindómion was gripping his shoulders, his expression wiped clean of misery with concern.

"What must we do? We can let no-one have this!"

Glorfindel snapped the box closed, tightened his fingers over it.  
"It must be destroyed in the forges. But thou hast won thy battle – yes, it spoke to me also, showed me things which I desire in the deeps of my soul. Kingship, leading war to Valinor itself. Does Celebrimbor know aught of this?"

After a moment to consult his memory, Tindómion shook his head.  
"He knows I do not share his love of craft. He said nothing of making such things of power. Some things are never spoken of outside the Gwaith-i-Mírdain." He looked at the mithril box, his eyes burning the silver back like mirrors. "Glorfindel, Annatar said I would go mad if I did not have Gil, if I did not find Maglor and slay him...mad as my father, as Fëanor. I am tainted by the thoughts in my mind. _ Help me! _ In Tirion, Maedhros asked my father to beat him, to cleanse him of the love he felt for Fingon. I saw it...please!"

Glorfindel was silent for a moment. He needed Tindómion to aid him in destroying this ring. As he was, he could not, he was too racked by the effects of what he had endured in that long ride from Ost-in-Edhil.

"Very well," he said. "Take off thy shirt. Brace against the wall. And stay there." His tone was that of a commander. Tindómion nodded, tearing off his garment and dropping it. He drew the great spill of hair over one shoulder and spread his hands against the stone.

Glorfindel unbuckled his sword belt, drew Sarambar from its sheath and laid the blade aside. He laid a hand on the others shoulder, felt the set of the muscles, his fingers drifted down the hard back.

"Thou couldst be him, both of them, thy sire, thy grandsire both..." He kissed the smooth skin. "I do this because I am thy friend, and because," he added grimly, "that _ thing_ has set a poison in thy soul which must be drawn. Do not move." He saw the thick rill of lashes drop.  
"It is going to hurt."

"I need it to hurt."

Glorfindel nodded and drew back his arm.

The first lash drew a gasp through Tindómion's teeth, stiffened him against the subsequent blows which followed. His hands beat against the wall, his tall frame shuddered, perspiration broke on his back, misted down over the red wheals, each breath was torn raggedly from his throat. His long legs trembled as the belt fell again and again, and his head dropped. Glorfindel felt the moment where the agony transmuted into release, the point where it burned away the shame, the blackness of his thoughts. He groaned. His shoulders shook with sobs.

Glorfindel stood back. Tindómion turned to him, pain stark on his face, tears blurred his eyes to liquid metal. He went down on his knees and laid his head against Glorfindel's stomach.  
"It is gone."

"Yes." Glorfindel smoothed the damp hair. "It is gone. Come, drink." He poured wine, made the other drain the goblet and lie on his stomach. The cool unguent and the fingers which spread it laid a balm on the fire, and Tindómion's eyes became blank as sleep took him. It was a healing one. Glorfindel watched, but no darkness overshadowed Tindómion's rest.

  
***

  
The High King was in Mithlond that night. There were no questions asked when Glorfindel and Tindómion rode into the palace, only greetings from those who saw them arrive. When both went to the great forges it was not deemed unusual. The Smiths Halls were in use day and night.

Tindómion's eyes were clear and distant. He knew what he must do, and soon he saw only the dance of superheated air as Glorfindel increased the forge's power.

_ It sought to darken thee. Whatever Fëanor was, his fire did not blacken. It is within thee. Use it, weave it. _

Tindómion settled his harp and began to play. The notes rippled like the flames; at first a gentle murmur gaining gradually in strength and power.

The ring shone molten in the heart of the fire. All else was dark. Glorfindel's voice formed a counterpoint as their chant wove in and out of music; the fire burned more fiercely, white at its core.

''Before the Sun and Moon, wildfire, fell-fire, blood of fire."

_ Blood of murder, blood of incest, blood of madness,_ a voice mocked.

"Burn clean, burn free. Thou hast no master!"

_Thy death, thy burning, thy defeat. Thou wert mastered!_

"I passed through fire!"

"I deny thee." Tindómion's voice sounded like an echo of another's. "My blood denies thee! The dead deny thee!"

Glorfindel raised his hands. The harpstrings wavered until Tindómion seemed to draw the melody from flame.

Images swirled in the heart of the furnace as if beckoning them, alluring, frenetic visions of lust and power and war. The air pulsated, throbbing with anguished tension. And then, as if in a final bid for their hearts, appeared the faces of those loved and lost.

"_Thou. Art. **Broken.**_" Glorfindel told the power.

A storm of pitch formed in the center of the fire, and within it an eye opened, catlike and rimmed with flame, red as slaughter.

"_Begone!_"

With an implosion of energies, the Eye swirled into nothing. The blackness rippled into a mane of hair, and a head turned, looking at them. The face was arrogant, puissant, its brow crowned by a circlet of three gems whose radiance muted even the scream of the inferno.  
But they were no more brilliant than the eyes beneath the coronal, for the one who wore the Silmarilli was not only their maker. Fëanor _was_ the Silmarilli incarnate.

With a clap like thunder the fire went out. There was silence like the the bottom of a well.

Glorfindel turned, after-images danced before his vision.

The ring was gone, not simply melted to slag. Only a few gleams which might have been _ mithril _ and the powder of gems fitfully sparkled.

"Holy Eru." Tindómion's voice shook, but his face was clean, as if power had burned it to the bone.

"Galadriel must know of this," Glorfindel's voice still hummed like a bell with the aftershocks of battle.

"And the king?"

"He and Elrond, when they return from Mithlond."

Once in the palace they drank wine in silence. Some things went beyond words. Glorfindel looked at Tindómion, saw the inner focus of his eyes, the set of his hard face.

"I am shamed. My grandfather would never have been swayed by such temptation." His words held only the sword-edge of anger, not sickened shame.

"Fëanor _was_ temptation, Istelion." Glorfindel felt himself smile as if in salute to the image which had shone clear in the forge-fire. "Whatever is said in the tales, it is why we followed him."

Tindómion thought of his father, felt the hot-velvet fume of desire as Maglor succumbed to the irresistible sexual force.

"Yes," he said, "I know." ~

  
~~~


	37. To Rule Them All

 

  
"Thou art High King and we respect thee." Celebrimbor rose in his seat, and the others of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain followed, standing about the great oval table. "But we will not banish Annatar. We take the word of my cousin and the Lord Glorfindel, of course." He bowed toward the Elda. "But we did not see this ring, and there is no evidence we can put before him of its...influence upon thee."

"Because it had to be destroyed !" Tindómion flashed. "And thou dost say thou knowest naught of his ..._experiments_ with such objects of power?"

"Everything we make has power in some degree, Istelion," the Master-Smith stated in a tone which his cousin could only interpret as patronizing. "Power is neither evil nor good, only how it is used. The power of thy sword could be used for ill !" He took a breath, leaned forward on his hands. "My lord King, we have been told that this gift promised thee an unending reign which would span the ages – "

"At a price," Glorfindel interjected. "And the price was too high, believe me. For in the end Gil-galad would not have been who he is, but changed beyond recognition."

Celebrimbor made a sound which might have been a huff of disbelief.

"Where is Annatar?" Galadriel asked.

"He travels often, north and east seeking for rare ores and minerals." There was a hint of defensiveness in the reply. "He knew not that Lindon was going to descend upon us and demand he answer for a gift he had given !"

"Son of Curufin, art thou blinded by thine own passions for making and creating?" Glorfindel asked. "How if he creates something one day that is so potent that it cannot be destroyed?"

The voices ceased. Celebrimbor's expression held something Tindómion might have thought was guilt, a certain stubborn furtiveness.

"All he has done is _aid_ us ! We have shared knowledge, experimented, and we prosper. Perhaps thy concerns for the High King have misled thee – seeing that which is not there."

"No. It was subtle. It took our own desires and warped them. To follow them would have led to ruin as surely as the Oath of Fëanor. Why dost thou close thy eyes and mind?"

"It is not _ our _ minds that are closed !" Celebrimbor retorted.

"That is enough !" Gil-galad did not shout but the authority in his voice brought silence down "I do not rule Ost-in-Edhil, yet I counsel thee to heed this warning. That is why I came here to speak with thee and sent no message. I hoped to see Annatar. I do not believe his absence is a coincidence."

"He would speak with thee gladly if thou didst allow him into Lindon." Celebrimbor spoke more quietly but with a trace of asperity.

"The ban stands." The High King's answer brooked no further discussion. He inclined his head, turned and swept from the room.

"Cousin. Please, _ think !_" Tindómion met Celebrimbor's eyes for a long moment and then followed with Glorfindel.

~~~

Two days after the strange ring had been destroyed, Gil-galad had returned from Mithlond. He had come at once to Tindómion's chambers and found him with Glorfindel. The air between them crackled and seethed with possibilities, but the barriers had gone up. Maglor's son had withdrawn himself again.  
Then Glorfindel had told him of the gift from Annatar, and the King relegated his personal concerns to the back of his mind for the time. He still had not spoken privately with Tindómion.

In the great mansion where he lodged when in Ost-in-Edhil, Gil-galad paced. He was titular High King of all the Elves of Middle-earth, but he did not rule Eregion, and he could not enforce his will upon them in this matter. It seemed Galadriel could not either, and the news Glorfindel had imparted had brought something leaping into her eyes which he thought was a spark of dread. It was the Gwaith-i-Mírdain who had the greatest following, and by extension the greatest influence, in Hollin.

What Annatar had offered to him might have seemed a great gift, save for the effect it had had on both Tindómion and Glorfindel. Ah yes, and Gil-galad could imagine well enough what would have flowered in his own mind. Yet something within him was disappointed that he had not grasped that gift, that Glorfindel had seen fit to destroy it without consulting him – and that alarmed him.

~~~

"A _what?_?" It was so very rare for Vanimórë to speak unless necessary that his exclamation pleased Sauron. For once, the steely control had loosed to show astonishment.

"A Ring of Power." Sauron could see the questions behind his son's violet eyes.

"For what purpose, my lord?"

"Thou canst be surprisingly obtuse." Sauron sat back, sipping the cold wine. Outside, gusts of arid wind swirled the dust. Men worked with their mouths covered against it.

"I see no reason for it, lord."

"That is because thou art a warrior."

Vanimórë rose from where he knelt and folded his arms.  
"Any object of power must be made so – surely – by the conference of power from he who makes it? Is that not so, lord?"

"That is so," Sauron agreed.

"And if _ that is so, _ my lord, does it not lessen thine own power? Did not thy...Master diminish by pouring his power into the creation of orcs, trolls, dragons?"

The lavender eyes narrowed a little. "Naturally, one must invest oneself into anything one does – and the greater the creation, the more one must give."

His son's expression showed bafflement. "And so, lord, thou wouldst make a...ring, transfer thy power into a..._ ring _ – an item of jewelry which can be lost so easily? Power should be held in oneself alone."

"Thou speakest of matters beyond thy ken." Sauron's faint smile faded. "The Elves are too strong. I need to control them. I will do this through their own thirst for knowledge. Almost I succeeded – but that was a mere experiment. Still, I learned something and nothing is ever wasted." He did not elaborate but his eyes warmed to a memory which appeared pleasing.

"Thou wilt never control them." A flash of passion.

"Why not?" Sauron asked. "Do I not control thee?"

"It will not come to pass," his son hissed. A hand caught him about the throat and he stood motionless.

"They tried to banish me, but it was the daughter of Finarfin who left Ost-in-Edhil. So, we will see, will we not?" The long fingers tightened and then Sauron kissed him, smiling. "Controlled by my will, they could make..._ marvelous _ slaves."

Far away, on an outflung spur of the Ash Mountains, rose the vast black walls of a tower which would dominate the minds of the peoples of Middle-earth for thousands of years.

**Barad-dûr.**

~~~

"Vilya, the Ring of Sapphire and Air, Nenya, the Ring of Adamant and Water, Narya the Red, the Ring of Fire."

They glinted on the cloth. The room was silent as Celebrimbor stood back.

"Now dost thou see why I kept silent when thou didst tell me of the ring Annatar made for Gil-galad? It has taken me long to fashion these."

Tindómion glanced at the High King.  
"What is the purpose of these, cousin?"

"Not to control thee, Istelion. But they do have power. It is not one of might or conquest however. With these in our hands we can stay the wearing of time on Middle-earth, our own weariness of the soul as time grows heavy. Our lands will shine undimmed through the Ages."

"And Annatar?"

"He had no hand in making these, Sire, if that is thy question. I forged them alone." Celebrimbor looked sated, as if he had loved long and well, or completed a task which had taken much endurance. He picked up the ring wherein gleamed a blue stone and held it out in his palm to the High King.  
"Wear it well, son of Fingon."

~~~

There was no ill in this ring. Gil-galad felt it, Glorfindel and Elrond confirmed it. Tindómion, when he touched it, tensed, as if waiting for some force to impact on him, but a look of rare wonder lightened his face and he nodded.

Those were the last years of true peace, and they were fecund as eternal Spring. The undercurrents of desire between the High King and his closest companion were omnipresent and unfulfilled, an ache which each bore silently. Yet their outward demeanor could not hide their inner hungers, and at times their expressions were unguarded as naked flame; warm with love or white-hot with flashes of lust. Tindómion drove himself brutally to assuage the ache within him.

And he searched for his father, although such was the bond between he and Gil-galad that the High King knew when this need came upon him, and ensured that his journeys were a military exercise, that he was never alone. Often, Glorfindel accompanied him. He had become their bulwark, their defense against one another, and through him they expressed and spoke of that which must be hidden. Glorfindel's own feelings were a melding of rage and loss for so much passion and fire arbitrarily damned by the judgment of Powers who could not comprehend the flame within them. He did not repent of any of his actions, and the memory of his audience with Námo still stirred him to fury. His reborn life was to be a continuation of the sentence passed on him at his death. The Valar had offered him nothing, and he was not here for them.

"We knew each other from childhood, we were both friends of Turgon."  
The year was waning as he spoke, the day still, mellow and golden. Gentle as whispers, leaves drifted to the earth. Tindómion was sitting back against the bole of a silver birch and Gil-galad had stretched against him, head on his chest. A redbreast called from somewhere, sweet-falling as the leaves, herald of summer’s end.

"When didst thou realize there was desire under the friendship? " Gil-galad murmured.

"We were very young." Glorfindel ran his fingers over the last of the frilled daises with a faint smile of remembrance. From somewhere else in the gardens came the laughter of children, the sound of hope, of innocence. Once they had all been thus, he thought.

Tindómion's smile held a trace of self-condemnation. Gil-galad's eyes were thoughtful.

"Thou didst not feel it was wrong?"

"It was scarce spoke of," Glorfindel said. "My father said that a shadow had dogged our steps from Cuiviénen. He said that before we came to Valinor we had been degenerate, and bestial in our lusts - that was his word – _ bestial._ He meant that then we did not have the Valarin laws and people might love where they would, whom they would. He said that it took the Valar to raise us to truth and light and wisdom, that the Moriquendi of the outer lands were surely doomed by their refusal to embrace the teachings of the Powers. When my father confronted me with my own unclean desires, I walked away, disowned myself, as thou knowest."

"Dost thou think," Tindómion's words were curious, hesitant. "It would always have remained just friendship between Ecthelion and thyself?"

"Were it not for _him?_" There was no need of a name. Through his dreams Tindómion knew what Maglor had seen and guessed in Tirion. "He changed so many things, Istelion. I do not know. Fëanor lit the fire and in doing so marked me forever. I lost what might have been with Ecthelion at that moment, yet we did love, in a way. But I still look on what thy grandfather made me as a gift."

"Gifts should not lightly be refused," Gil-galad murmured.

"Some of them have to be," Tindómion's reply was quiet.

"Then why are they given, if they may not be received?"

Gil-galad rose. A a sudden sweep of wind brought down a flurry of yellow leaves. Tindómion came to his feet as the king’s blue-silver eyes impaled his.

"I think the giver has no choice."

Something changed in the king’s eyes; they burned bright as Eärendil in a winter sky. His hand moved to touch Tindómion's face.

"Gil!" Glorfindel's cry was as a flash of lightning.

Vilya was burning on his hand.

The king felt it as an enormous pressure on his mind, as if iron hands sought to wrench apart the melded bones of his skull and pour acid into his brain. He reeled, staggering, hardly conscious of Glorfindel and Tindómion holding him up.

The dream...it was the dream...a monstrous dark tower in a land of hot ash. It rushed toward him, loomed above him, a mountain of blackness. It became everything. Night swallowed him and in it opened an eye of fire, rimmed by gold; a ring etched with letters of flame, the Elven runes made harsh and discordant. It burned in his mind, his eyes, while a voice spoke words of domination and of power.

_ One Ring..._  
One Ring...  
to rule them all...

**No...**

One ring to find them...

**No.**

One Ring to bring them all...  
And in the Darkness bind them.

The command beat upon his consciousness, and he knew if he broke, permitted it entrance, it would possess him, own him...

_ ** No! ** _

He saw the one who spoke and knew who it was. This was the Shadow sensed long ago by Galadriel, by Elrond, by himself, come in a fair and noble guise, entrapping the brilliance of the Smiths of Ost-in-Edhil for this purpose – to control the Elves.

He was not alone. He felt the horror and fear of those who wore Narya and Nenya, their sense of betrayal, their struggle.

There in the sunlit gardens of Lindon, Gil-galad blazed up, a star of radiance against Night.  
_"No! Get thee gone!"_

He wrenched Vilya from his hand, held it locked in his fist. Harsh breaths panted through his teeth. Glorfindel and Tindómion were beside him on the grass as he raised his head.

_Didst thou see?_

_Yes._

He rose. "Send to Círdan and Elrond. _Now!_"

~~~

The red-black fire trailed like water as Sauron strode across the chamber.

"Well?"

"Thou didst ask my thoughts on this, lord," Vanimórë said, without temper, as his head inclined toward the gold band which seared molten on Sauron's finger. "Thou didst say when the One was on thy hand that the bearers of the three would be thine. It seems..."

"Silence." A hand dragged back his hair. "There is more than one way, after all. They have simply ensured their own destruction. I have work for thee. Come."

War. It would be war.

~~~

Tindómion learned war, the full bloody horror of it when Sauron lead his armies into Eregion. Ost-in-Edhil was burned and brought to ruin, Celebrimbor was slain, and Sauron turned west. In those years all Eriador was overrun, refugees streamed over the Towers of Mist into the land of Lórinand whence Galadriel had departed. Others joined with Elrond who was lord of the haven-valley he called Imladris. Those who could came to Gil-galad in Lindon.

This was the beginning of the time of Sauron's dominion in Middle-earth, the Black Years, the Times of Flight. The hosts that followed him were vast, and had he not had to leave a great force behind to guard against attack by Elrond's army, Lindon might have been overrun by sheer strength of numbers. The High King sent to Númenor to ask for aid but received no answer, and he prepared to hold and die at the line of the River Lhûn.

Glorfindel had ridden with Elrond. Tindómion fought beside Gil-galad, his sword brother, and he came to desire his King more through those years with a warrior's savage hunger. The High King was beautiful in battle, lethal and splendid. They became reflections of one another in combat; _Starfire and Wildfire,_ the Elves called them who saw their effortless and deadly harmony. Tindómion would have laid down his life eagerly, done anything to give a light of hope to the eyes which burned with a cold determination, a spirit that would not accept defeat save by death. In the rare times in which there was any respite, he would pick up his harp and watch as Gil-galad relaxed.

It was three years since Sauron's forces had razed Ost-in-Edhil, grim years of death and bloodshed. The forges pounded day and night mending and making armor, the fletchers produced bushels of arrows for the archers. The clang of metal on metal, the acrid smoke of hot iron clapped to a war-horse’s hooves, the call of trumpets, and the ocean-groan of conflict marked the heat of summer and the chill of winter. Beauty and peace were lost jewels which one could rarely uncover from the blood and dirt, but those times were more precious than any gem.

The winter solstice was passed and the mild, green weather became harder. The wind began to turn east, bitter and black, and snow came, a blinding blizzard which drove the armies apart. For a time, as the winds howled like wolves about the tents, Sauron's army was confined to its camp. The Elves could fight upon the snow, but they too needed rest and, in any event, the lack of visibility made battle impossible.

Tindómion lowered the tent flap, secured it and shrugged off the hooded cloak of silver furs. From an the inner room he heard the plash of water pouring and then Vórimóro emerged.

"Istelion. Gil is bathing. Snow-melt is plentiful enough after all." With a smile he held aside the heavy material. "I will mull wine and go to my tent."

"Rest whilst thou may. We attack as soon as the snowfall ceases."

"I would have the King rest also." Vórimóro looked as if he would say more but seemed to think better of it. Tindómion stepped into the warmth of the smaller chamber where Gil-galad sat in a copper tub. Steam whisped up and the aroma of herbs.

"I was at the outposts, Gil. I think the enemy will make no move until this storm blows itself out, and I see no sign of it this night." Urns of hot water stood beside the tub and he lifted one. Gil-galad leaned forward as it cascaded through his hair and then tipped his head back as strong fingers soaped it and rinsed it clean.

"Massage me, Istelion." He rose and dried himself.

There was no hesitation in Tindómion. He _wanted_ to touch his King. This time of war had tightened his desires until they quivered perpetually for release which he found in combat alone. If they were to die...His mouth set. He would not permit such thoughts.

_ But if I am to die here, I will ever regret that I lacked the courage to love him. _

He warmed scented oil in his hands and drew them down over the taut shoulders, the muscles rigid under his fingers. Probing the knots and bands of tension, he slowly moved down the long sweep of the back which narrowed to slender hips and firm buttocks.

The relentless pound of the gale, the comforting hiss of the braziers enclosed them in a privacy which was increasingly rare. Tindómion savored the slick silk and sinew under his hands, the sounds of pleasure the king made; they were intimate, a lover's moans before possession, an invitation to seduction. He leaned forward, fascinated by the perfection of the tall body which lay so languorously. A drift of his hair spilled across it and Gil-galad purred, his hips writhed and the motion brought a heavy pulse into Tindómion’s own loins. He caught back the errant tress, his palm cupped the hard curve of the buttocks. Vivid images beat against his mind with wings of fire.

"Istelion." Relief mingled with regret as Gil-galad moved, came to his feet. He stretched, shook back the river of dark hair and leaned back against his companion.

"Promise me something."

"What?" Tindómion locked his arms about the hard belly.

"If our defenses fall, a ship is waiting for thee. Take Vilya to Númenor. It must not be claimed by Gorthaur."

"No." The Fëanorion's arms tightened. "I will not promise that. I will never leave thee. Thou canst not ask that of me. And do not command me." He whispered the words against the black hair and felt the clench of Gil-galad's muscles.

"Am I not thy king?"

"Thou art also my friend. A friend may not command his companion to desert him. Had my uncle Maedhros been in my place, dost thou think any order, any command could have sent him from thy father's side?"

"That is unfair." All the tension Tindómion had drawn out of Gil-galad returned. He tilted his head back and their cheeks touched.

"Thou art the last of the Fëanorions, Istelion. When the word came of Celebrimbor's dreadful death thou didst weep. I will not have thee end here."

"I will not have the blood of Fingolfin end here !"

"Elrond carries that blood." One of the king's hands rose to clasp Tindómion's and drew it down.

"He does not wish the Kingship. I love Elrond, but my fealty is to thee."

Their words were no more than breaths, almost drowned by the ululation of the storm. It spoke of black ice and sunless dawns, of loneliness, but it isolated them from war, from curious eyes, created an island remote from the world. Tindómion's pulse thudded against Gil-galad's back, his erection thrust against his breeches, into the curve of the hard rear. He felt the hitch of the king's breath as his fingers were guided to the tumescence which jutted, hot and hard. His heart came into his throat as he closed his hand around it, silken and engorged. The king locked his hand over Tindómion's.

"May a..._friend_ ask, if he may not command?" The words were throaty, almost inaudible.

"A friend may _ask_ anything..."

"Then I ask..." Strained and intense.

He throbbed, hardened further against the strong fingers. Tindómion caught a breath, slid them up. He felt the liquid slickness at the tip, passed his thumb over it and his arm tightened, pinning Gil-galad against him. The king gasped and thrust.

"I will give...what I can..."

So marvelous the feel. Ah, he wanted more, so much more, but this was further than he had ever allowed himself to go save in his mind. The king needed release for a fleeting moment from all that weighed on him, but Tindómion's body required no rationalism. He wanted to feel the hunger, know he was desired and, above all, to touch what he had forbidden himself for so long. He closed his eyes, heard their harsh catching breaths, felt Gil-galad press back against him in fierce invitation.

_ Fire..._ melting through him, concentrating in his groin, sweet breath buffeting his cheekbone as the king arched his neck. Even the wind’s howl faded, its arrhythmic violence muted by the groans and growls from both their throats, now become feral and urgent. Tindómion's mind supplied him with all his body did not enact. The glorious friction as Gil-galad wantonly pushed back against him and wild imaginings exploded him into release even as the King cried out his name. Wetness welled over his fingers.

Tindómion's legs trembled, he felt the shudder through the king's body as it relaxed against him for a moment. Through the inner crash and sigh of pleasure and satiation he breathed:  
"I stay at thy side, Sire."

And Gil-galad murmured: "Yes."

Tindómion's steps were languid with the aftermath as he walked to lift the hanging.

"Istelion."

He halted at the richness of his name, spoken in such a way, and reluctantly turned his head. The blue-silver eyes burned in preternatural radiance and there was something within them which could only be described as triumph.

"My lord?"

But Gil-galad was too intelligent to press his advantage and Tindómion knew it. A moment caught out of time, yet one that might lead to another.

"Take some rest."

A nod. "I will, sire."

He struggled with the ties of the tent, as the force of the blizzard cooled the burn on his cheeks. In his own pavilion he stripped and washed the betraying essence from him, and after a while even the whine of the wolf-winds faded into dreamless sleep.~

~~~


	38. Victory Beyond Hope, Slavery Without End

** Victory Beyond Hope, Slavery Without End. **

~ "They are at the end of their endurance. Tomorrow they will break and retreat. With thy help."

~~~

The winter had faded into a spring of blustering winds and heavy rains which turned the ground to mud, and made each engagement a morass of blood and clinging muck. Now, as the days lengthened to summer, it seemed that Sauron's victory was at hand. Many more Men had been slain than Elves, but there were always more to replace them. Sauron had left his son to guard against attack from Elrond's forces, keeping them engaged in the north while troops moved through Calenhardon and the great gap between the Towers of Mist and the White Mountains.

The black year, poised on the cusp between spring and summer, saw Gil-galad and the Elves on the brink of defeat. It was at this time that Sauron called his son to him.  
He was seated on a great chair in his pavilion. A pellet of incense smoldered in a brazier, the rich spice a pleasant contrast to the ever-present odors of the camp: latrine ditches, horses, sweat and cook-fires.

"Thou wilt lead the final offensive," Sauron said.

He watched Vanimórë's eyes narrow. "Thy will, my Lord."

"Try to capture the High King and his Fëanorian lover alive. I have plans for both of them."

"Thou doth place a great deal of faith in me if thou think'st I could take them _both._"

"I do have great faith in thee, my son." Sauron's voice was suave. His smile, a mirror of Vanimórë's own, glinted. "And thou wilt have thy best warriors with thee."

"Even if they are captured they will never bow to thee. They will give thee nothing. They would die rather."

"Perhaps not. They love one another. A repeating pattern. Melkor saw it in Fingolfin at the last, and in Maedhros when he was imprisoned. The blood of Fëanor, the blood of Fingolfin. Ever they draw together. They would do anything for the other."

His son stripped off his gauntlets, slapped them against his thigh.

"Do not think of killing them," Sauron warned.

Their eyes locked.

"Thou art far too easy to read," Sauron chided. "And it always ends the same. That is the weak chink in thine armor. Still, it does provide me with some amusement. Thou wilt swear."

Vanimórë said nothing. His mind blazed with anger.

"Thou wouldst like one, no?"

Vanimórë's chin came up. Sauron's hand cupped it.  
"Do not even think of lying to me."

"I would not want them the way that thou doth want me," his son hissed.

"There is always a choice before thee." Sauron stepped behind him, and began to remove the black mail. Vanimórë made no move to hinder or to help but his pulse grew swifter; only his father knew that it was fear of pain to come. He had paused before entering the encampment to prepare himself, it was his one concession. Closing his eyes he concentrated on the rage of humiliation. There was no pleasure, for he would not allow it; there was only the shame, the hate.

Night passed in measured chunks of time bitten from pallid darkness. Walking the camp beside the fires and tents, Vanimórë fed his anger upon vivid images of what the morrow would bring. The sky paled to the east, the color so pure that it could have no relation to the blood and striving of the war it illuminated below. The wind had been a light north-easterly for days, now, as the sun rose, it strengthened, flattening the campfire flames. There was a taste of the sea in it; it blew from the south-west, boisterous as a tumble of children.

Sauron knew him too well. It gave Vanimórë a sense of hollowness to realize how easily he could be read, despite his defiance, as if he lacked an essential solidity, was truly nothing more than an adjunct to his father. It had stirred him to arousal to imagine the beauty of the Eldar submitting to him. Dreams. None would claim kinship with him. If he wanted anything he would have to take it by force – the one thing he had never done, as if to prove he would never emulate Morgoth, or his own father.

"Lord?"

He whipped around. The woman flinched back. She clasped the stoneware jug close to her. Snarls of untended hair were drawn back from her face. Her eyes held the empty look of a camp-follower. Too many nights lying under rutting men wore the women down to a grey obscurity. Under the thinness of her face delicate bones still lifted a piquant beauty against the unforgiving light of the sun.

"Here is wine, my Lord." She cradled the jug as if it were her only reason for existing.

"My thanks." He took it and she fumbled in a large scrip for a goblet. He he poured. Deep red with the scent of plums and honey, this was Sauron's own supply, out of the vine-rich land around the Sea of Rhun.

Not far away his own chosen men were talking quietly as they adjusted harnesses and buckles, checked their weapons with casual practice. They were all young. War made youths into hardened warriors swiftly if they survived.

The young woman shivered a little in the wind. She was from the warmer lands whence this wine originated, it showed in the gold skin, the hoops of silver through her septum and ears, the exotic tilt to her eyes. Vanimórë knew the importance of such women in any army. The men required them. In his own companies he ensured they were treated as well as was possible; his own chosen women were given gifts and medical attention when needed. In every tilt of the head, every movement, he would see his sister.  
He extended the cup and relieved her of the jug.  
"Drink," he murmured and, inured to obedience she did. He saw the sparkle of pleasure lighten her face at the broth-rich liquid. It reminded him of Vanya when he had thieved honeycomb for her.

Thunder growled distantly, a storm pushing in from Belegaer perhaps, although as yet the sky was still clear. He finished the wine, gazed westward.

_ Will this day end as Sauron purposes? _

He felt stained by death. He had killed, and new scars had added themselves to the tally on his body, only to fade into memory. It seemed iniquitous that he had slain Elves, and did not show the marks they had gifted him before he reft the life from them. Sometimes he did not even see them die, and that too lay on his spirit. It should be witnessed at the least; he should watch as the light went out of their eyes. But the beauty and valor lay in mud and water, in blood, became as offal flung from a butcher's block. He loathed himself with an intensity that burned like acid. He fought only because death offered him only utter dominion by Melkor, so he had been told from the beginning, in Angband's fire-rent darkness. He did not know what would happen to a soul in the Void, where there was no respite, no escape from a torment of the spirit, when death itself proved an eternal prison.

His command to guard against the forces of Elrond had proved pointless, since the Peredhel and Glorfindel with him had ridden into the foothills of the Towers of Mist, and when they were tracked the pursuers had not returned. Vanimórë had found bodies pierced by arrows, the company of fifty dead to a man. Elrond seemed to have vanished into the wild land between Eriador and the mountains, and the advantage lay with the Elves. To send more after them would be slaughter and he was too much a commander to deliberately risk his warriors. He cared for his men. Most were not evil at the core, as he had seen long ago in the camps of the Easterlings.

Still, he wondered where the Peredhel had hidden an army and he was wary lest it come down upon his own. And so he watched, until at last, after a cheerless winter, the voice in his mind ordered him to come and partake in this final victory.

He mounted, riding through the lines as the army fell into position. He could see far away, the glint of metal from the forces of Gil-galad. His men had received their orders: they were to try and take the high king and his bronze-haired companion alive. All of them knew this would likely result in their deaths. Too many had died in combat against the Elves.

The banners of Sauron snapped in the wind, and a rumble of noise surged on them like the sea. Far away, where the land rose beyond the Lhûn, numberless glints and pricks of light appeared like a swarm of stars.

Horns brayed, and the lines began to move, but Vanimórë's eyes were fixed unblinkingly on those sharp metallic flashes. His sight was keener than anyone's in this host save Sauron's and now his eyes widened under the helm.

"Bloody Hells," he breathed.

The army which was pouring over the low hills from the west was not Elven. Vanimórë held back his stamping warhorse as he watched. Sauron had tried to send scouts over the river into Lindon, but none had ever returned. They could not hope to hide from the Nandor Elves who patrolled the woods and hills and after a time, no more were sent. If he himself had scouted he would have seen what had come, what was here now. He was glad that he had not, for his mind had no defenses against his father's.

There were thousands and they were fresh for battle. His flash of thought struck Sauron's mind.

_ Númenor._

In a heartbeat all was changed. His mood had been grim as cold iron, imagining the aftermath if Sauron triumphed. If the Elves existed free in the world Vanimórë could feel that there was brightness somewhere. He could not share it, but needed to know it existed. Under Sauron that light would be extinguished.

Relief flamed through him; he felt it like the kiss of hot wine then and the days after, as Sauron's forces were smashed at Sarn Ford and Tharbad. He was kept close to his fathers side in the chaos of a defeat so absolute that Sauron only narrowly escaped, and his armies were routed or scattered.

Vanimórë longed to join the Elves. It would not have been impossible, but the hold upon his mind would have drawn him back eventually. Sauron knew all that he saw, and thus he served the Elves by serving his father, which unpalatable truth which he had slowly grown to accept. Had he been captured he would not have resisted, but it did not happen. Once again the Morannon closed behind him. And yet his mood was bolstered by the most decisive defeat of the Dark since the War of Wrath, and he could endure.  
He would endure.

  
***

  
"I will bring them down..."

The words were like his caresses, silken, implying threat as they ran down the hard-muscled chest and stomach. Sitting upright in the great bed, the crimson silk crumpled under them, Sauron held his son back against him. Languorous now with the aftermath of sex, he admired through his fingertips the interplay of muscles under warm skin, the feel of the tense, intransigent hate permeating every sinew. Vanimórë loathed his usage, clung to it like martyrdom, but more even than that, it enraged him to be held in a parody of tenderness.

"One way or another...I will bring them down."

He felt the skepticism in his son's mind. Vanimórë was a warrior, naturally he was thinking in military terms. Behind his head, Sauron smiled.

"There is more than one way to achieve any objective, my son. I will remind thee of that in time."

"Thou doth not make war by sea. The men of Númenor have a vast fleet. Thy time would be better served rebuilding thine own forces." Vanimórë's words betrayed his curiosity.

"That is thy duty, slave."

"In straight battle thou wilt never defeat them on land. They are better equipped, stronger, their arrival acted on the Elves like Dorwinion wine on an empty-bellied youth." The reply was curt. "The army would have to be half as large again, two thirds to be certain of victory and for all that thou canst say the Elves would have crumbled in time. I do not think it would have been so easy. The Men of the Harad and the Rhun fear them."

"They fear me more." The lithe hands slid down. "Unloose the chains which bind thee." Sauron felt every muscle clench. His son was so determined not to be emasculated by rape that he had, in defiance, trained himself to be as skillful as an odalisque. Yet he would not permit himself to feel pleasure when with Sauron. The few lovers he took were for brief release, and scarcely satisfied him. He was cautious of hurting, of discovering within himself the need to inflict pain. It was such a waste. Vanimórë's soul burned with sensuality and white-hot passion. Were it ever unleashed it would be as wild, as savage, as a storm.

_For thee? Never. _ The mental reaction was instinctive, a slammed door.

"Liar," Sauron reached for the device even as he hardened against the tight cleft of his son's buttocks. He slid the bit into Vanimórë's mouth. It depressed his tongue, a delicate chain ran under his chin, and when the reins tightened it jerked back his head. He braced himself as Sauron pushed into him again, filled him, thrust harder, deeper. His teeth clenched on the metal, he tasted blood, steel and the more bitter tang of his degradation. He kept his eyes closed until he was released, felt the harness unbuckled from his head, the bit slip free. 

"Whether or no, I _ will _ have thee. Whether or no, thou _shalt_ serve me. But always remember, the manner of thy servitude is thy choice." Sauron grasped a handful of the raven hair. "_Thy choice. _ Now go."

The violet eyes opened. They gave back only icy contempt.

"No, thou wilt give _nothing_ will thee?" The blow snapped Vanimórë's head sideways. "And perhaps it _is _ far more pleasurable to take."

  
***

  
The victory of the Elves and Men had not been without cost. The silver trumpets of the Númenoreans had been answered by the exultant flourish of Gil-galad's warriors, but there had been no time to rest from battle. After the two engagements which blasted Sauron's army apart, the Elves and Men turned north. Elrond rode out of Imladris and he and Gil-galad caught the host in the east and smashed it. Contingents pursued Sauron and his few remaining bodyguards out of Eriador and as far as the fringes of the great forest, Greenwood the Great. It was high summer before they gathered in Lindon and held celebration and council.

The women and children whom had been sent to the Havens returned rejoicing, but there was sorrow also; widows and fatherless children. The war had again cost the Elves too much in death. Thus there was a somberness in the gatherings even as the season blessed them with days of blue and gold.

Tindómion rode back with Glorfindel. They had ridden gone almost to the dark land far in the east, close enough for their eyes to discern the forbidding gates, flanked by towers, and to guess what lay behind it. But they encountered few save remnants of Sauron's armies who were fleeing and of no mind to give battle.  
It was Midsummer when they returned to Lindon. The journey through Eriador had been grim, though the season drew green veils over the ravaged lands, and nature would heal it in time.

"It is only the beginning," Glorfindel had murmured as he had gazed toward the gates of Sauron's land.

~~~

Gil-galad and Admiral Ciryatur came out to meet them, and the great ward was filled with calls of greeting. The king clasped Glorfindel's wrist and then Tindómions; a brief fierce warrior's grip. There had been no touch more intimate since that winter night in Gil-galad's pavilion, but there was an internal shift deep within them both, an unspoken and now unveiled thrill to the looks which passed between them. Their actions had brought them closer in body and soul, yet still all was unsaid, and the invisible barrier remained.

"Fanari is here," Gil-galad said and Tindómion turned as his mother slipped through the ward and threw herself into his arms. Her face glowed and tears sparkled in her eyes. She turned to Glorfindel and he smiled and lifted her off her feet.

"Come. Thou must all bathe and refresh thyselves."

The Elves and Men entered the palace, servants showing them to their chambers, bringing wine, trays of food. Glorfindel said he would bathe and speak to Gil-galad. A deeper discussion with the Númenoreans and the Lady Galadriel would be held on the morrow.

"I should have acted before."

"None of us knew what he was." Glorfindel dressed.

"Nevertheless, I should have trusted my instincts. And when he gave Istelion that ring..." Gil-galad slammed his hand against the wall. "This was too close, much too close. We almost lost all."

"Ost-in-Edhil might have come to another kinslaying." Their eyes met and held fast. "When we force others, when we kill, Morgoth must laugh in the Void. But to me it seems as if whatever was said after the War of Wrath that the Doom has never been lifted. Perhaps it lies upon all of us who still defy the laws."

"Yes...I wondered at Celebrimbor's friendship with Lintalómë." The high king's voice came a little edged. There was one of Fëanorian blood whom had followed his own heart. Had Tindómion known? He had said nothing all through the years.  
_ Is he afraid? For himself? For me? Ah, Istelion if only thou didst know. I will die in battle. Can we not have_ something?  
He had so often been tempted to reveal his presentiments, yet how base that would be. No-one knew. No-one ever would. He said slowly: "Wouldst thou risk their wrath again?"

"Perhaps," Glorfindel said. "Thou wouldst ask me what keeps Istelion and thee apart? He is unwilling to see thee punished. He would endure it gladly if it fell on him alone. And is it not the same for thee?"

From somewhere outside came a burst of Mens' laughter, contrasting oddly with the anger in Gil-galad's heart. Men, he knew, were not so troubled by this thing which loomed large over his own life. The Númenoreans did not consider it a sin. And to Men, death was a great unknown, they trusted that if they lived lives of nobility and honor that it would be remembered by the One when they passed from the Circles of the World. Gil-galad could envy them. The Valar had no power over the Secondborn.

"Yes," he said at last. "And we are not even given the choice to bear the blame, to carry the _ sin _ alone. Are we to live half a life, one incomplete and sapless until our bodies fade into spirit?"

Glorfindel laid a hand on his shoulder. "I do not believe that either. I can still feel desire, Gil', I still have the same soul, and that soul was touched by flame long ago. And thou doth love a Fëanorion. That is not easy." A glint surfaced in the ice-blue eyes. Memories. "If he did not have his father's temperance he would be his grandsire and _ he _ would not have hesitated."

"Then I could wish he _were_ like Fëanor," Gil-galad said. "I will not wed. I will not live as my father lived, not for duty nor even for my people. I have never had any choice."

"We none of us choose whom we love," Glorfindel said with ageless sorrow. "And so we love, we burn – and are damned." ~

~~~


	39. ~ Flame Unto Flame ~

 

  
~ It had been almost one hundred years since the foundation of the hidden valley of Imladris.  
In the years after Sauron's defeat many survivors of Ost-in-Edhil settled there, bringing with them their skills, and there was built what became known as The Last Homely House. It was a complex of buildings rather than a house, chambers fringed by balconies and interconnected by corridors. There were forges and stables, bake-houses and breweries. The gardens were filled with flowers, herbs, and the music of water. Indeed, the most constant music here was water: the falls and the river Bruinen, thunderous in the spring with the snow-melt from the Towers of Mist and tuneful in the summer. Imladris was a haven in the wild lands and those who had seen war and death came there gladly, taking Elrond as their Lord.

Their keepers met there to speak of the Three Rings, for it had been made clear to them that while Sauron held the One they might not use Nenya, Vilya or Narya freely and openly. Yet they were potent and powerful, and perhaps there would come a day when they could be utilized. Thus Círdan, Gil-galad and Galadriel vowed to keep them in secret.

Tindómion leaned on the balcony of the guest room and gazed up toward the pine woods on the heights above. Sunlight caught a wavering thread of water, like blowing gossamer. The air was filled with the scent of honeysuckle, evergreens and the stone-and-fern tang of the north.

A ripple of laughter sounded as two people came into view. One was Elrond, the other Celebrian, daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn. Tall and slender, her silver hair showered to her hips, and gems were wound in its length, sparkling as she moved. A smile crossed Tindómion's face as he observed how close the two walked, and he recalled Elrond's words to him some days ago.  
"I thought that I had chosen, Istelion – not to wed, not to engender children who would be faced with the choice I was, my brother was. But now..." His face flushed, and Tindómion smiled. He said: "Yes, I saw the way thou doth look upon Lady Celebrian."

"I understand now," Elrond murmured. "The heart chooses."

"I wish thee only happiness. Imladris will be a place of hope and brightness with Celebrian at thy side."

A look of relief, as if he had irrevocably cleared some great obstacle in his path, crossed Elrond's face and he embraced his friend.  
"We will not marry yet. We know little of one another. Yet," he paused. "I believe we know all there is to know."

Tindómion nodded. "And I understand that."

~~~

Nothing had been formalized between the couple, but it was clear that they openly courted. Now, as they stood surrounded by fragrance, Tindómion brought his lap-harp and sat down on the balcony, weaving a lover's song. Elrond and Celebrian drew closer and the harpist drifted further into the music until images formed before his eyes and melted away, leaving only a lingering sorrow.

Blinking, he realized that the sun now lay amber-gold over the gardens. Elrond and Celebrian had gone, but sitting before him were Glorfindel and Gil-galad, watching him with expressions both of wonder and sadness.

"Knowest thou the song?" Glorfindel asked.

"No." Tindómion's voice was deep with memories not his own. "But I know whom it was made for."

"We saw Tirion," the king said softly.

"As did I. I saw my father play it for Fingon and Maedhros." The silver eyes lost their dreaming opacity and their intensity slammed into Gil-galad like a blow. They touched without moving and desire flamed between them like a fire-storm.

  
***

  
"It is good to see the friendship between thyself and Lord Elrond, considering the rumors."  
The words and smile were nectar-sweet. Celebrian paused as she was brought back from pleasurable thoughts by Rosriel's voice. Her clear eyes met the other's with a stare that might have been Galadriel's.

"Indeed," was all she said.

"I could wish that thine eyes had alighted upon my son." The coo was mournful, a ring dove calling from a bower of leaves in spring rain.

"Thy son is not for me, lady, nor ever would be," Celebrian replied pleasantly. "_Rumors_ are often built of falseness. But his heart has never turned to me."

"He could be turned to thee." With a dipping motion Rosriel came forward. "Thou art the granddaughter of Finarfin, if Ereinion believed that thou wert amenable to him..."

"No," Celebrian said flatly. "No, Lady. I have heard how thou wouldst broker a marriage for thy son, but I will have no part in such schemes."

"He must marry! And who better than thee?" In her intensity Rosriel came too near, reaching out to touch Celebrian's arm, who drew back with all the aloof haughtiness her mother could assume.  
"Thou couldst be a great queen."

"When I wed it will be for love, to one who loves me in return. I would do thy son a grave injustice to marry him, Lady." Celebrian turned away in a shimmer of silver hair.

Rosriel's throat worked rapidly. "I hope thou art cursed by loving one with Mortal blood," she hissed through her teeth and flung away. Celebrian tensed her shoulders as if against a cold wind and paused.  
"And thou art already cursed," she said calmly. "By hate." And she swept on, serene as a swan.

"That was foolish." Glorfindel's voice brought Rosriel around to face him. Her nails cut into her palms and she stepped back, drawing her bliaut aside as if removing herself from something unclean. He showed no concern, only moved to set himself in her path as she walked away.

"Whatever may come to pass between thy son and the one he loves it is not for thee to interfere, nor to bring two people together whose hearts are not entwined. I have seen Celebrian and Elrond as one, Rosriel."

"I would believe _ nothing _ that thou didst see. Ah yes, the Elves revere thee for thy death and praise thy courage out of ignorance. Even you dare not deny that thou wert punished for thine acts."

"I have never denied that." Glorfindel's soul burned up as if gold flame shone through his skin, while Rosriel darkened in her black virulence.

"I pity thee. I truly do. I knew Fingon. He would never have shamed thee, never treated thee with unkindness. But Gil-galad saw much in his youth and felt the hate in the household which which sprang from thee." Glorfindel refused to let her pass when she glared up at him. "A child is the greatest gift that can be given to us and all thou couldst see was a game-piece."

"It was my duty, and a filthy one, to lie with a man and get a child."

This attitude, he thought, was strange even for Rosriel. While most Noldor believed their desires faded after birthing children, he knew of no woman who believed intimacy a filthy act. She seemed to gleam as an ice-mountain gleams, implacable and pitiless.

"The act of love, either between men and women or two of the same sex is natural, Rosriel," he said watching the burst of disgust mantle her face. It spoke more clearly than her words could have, yet she answered, teeth showing like pearls behind her red lips, her beauty become something ferocious and unpleasant.  
"It was duty. That is all it should be. Those who revel in it are damned. Oh, I knew about Fingon the _Valiant._" She dripped mockery on the last word. "And his cursed cousin, but I did my duty, though I despised my husband. And _I will not have my son lose the kingship for breaking the holy laws._ I brought Ereinion him into this world to be a great king, to rise above the muck of his forefathers."

"And if the Valar did not denounce our _ unhallowed _ loves, then no doubt thou wouldst be happy to see him with Istelion." Glorfindel watched her unblinkingly, saw her throat convulse as if she were swallowing back vomit. Her next words were choked.  
"It is abomination! All who indulge in it should be cast into the Everlasting Dark. And they have been." She nodded abruptly as if at some-one else who stood there, invisible to Glorfindel, and the air, on that summer afternoon, held the tang of old, rotten ice. "And thou, _ Golden One, _ when thy task is done thou wilt not escape it. Thou art gilt painted over a tomb all filled with decay."

He stepped aside, watched in silence as she swept away and then shook his head. There was some deep wrong here, he felt it. The unnatural chill vanished with her.

"Glorfindel?"

He turned to see Tindómion gazing at him. There was sorrow and anger behind the burnished eyes as he looked after Rosriel.  
"Can we go somewhere more private?"

The small apron of land above Glorfindel's chambers was approached by a steep climb through heather and lichened boulders. The greensward was starred by flowers, and where the cliff climbed again a small waterfall plashed down into a deep, clear pool.

"I come here to think." He sat and linked his hands about his knees.

Tindómion did not sit.  
"Rosriel and her adherents are poisoning every-one in Lindon," he said.

Glorfindel's eyes seemed to reflect the waterfall until they became light itself. "I know. I still believe love is a gift of Eru. Strange that such a gift should bring down the wrath of the Valar. What wouldst thou do if I advised thee to take what joy was here?"

The muscles in Tindómion's jaw locked. "I could not allow the Valars anger to fall upon Gil. And I think I will go mad with frustration."

Glorfindel's fingers closed on his shoulder. "I know." The two words were infused with the deepest of sympathy and for one heartbeat, Tindómion could have both wept and cursed.

  
***

  
The Summer Solstice feast had been planned by Rosriel to bring many of the young and unwed women of Lindon before her son's eyes. As the seasons turned and melted one into another she grew more desperate to get a wife for Gil-galad. Sometimes even the reason was forgotten, there was only the knowledge that he must marry, that or exile the son of Maglor who, in her mind, assumed the proportions of all the cursed Fëanorions. He was Maedhros, he was Maglor, he was Fëanor himself.  
The palace was filled with the flash of gems, the leaf-rustle of silks, the harmony of Elven voices and laughter, music under the stars.

Gil-galad knew why his mother had organized this. Since the wars of Eregion and the unveiling of the dark Power in the East, many Elves had fled westward to Lindon. There were kingdoms of Sindar and Silvan Elves in Greenwood the Great and Lórinand east of the Towers of Mist from which news came at times. But those were the Days of Flight and the Elves who came to Lindon forsook the Hither Lands for Valinor. Yet Lindon prospered as if in defiance of the Shadow. It had the friendship of Númenor, and Gil-galad knew he would never leave Middle-earth.  
He would die here.

He saw little of Tindómion during the celebrations save for when the Fëanorion played his harp in the evenings. His face and mind were closed to the high king, who entertained the guests seeking him out with what patience he could muster. Glorfindel and Elrond had come from Imladris and they too were perfect courtiers. Celebrian arrived with Galadriel and Celeborn and, if one wished to wager, it would be on finding the silver haired lady and Elrond in one another's company.

The rare times when Tindómion abdicated his control with Gil-galad had all been moments caught out of time, detached from the flow of the world: an empty corridor, a tent isolated in a winter gale. In the palace there were few such opportunities, and to be surrounded by the court lent their relationship an illusion of normality. Tindómion had never asked permission to build himself a house, seemed content to dwell in the palace under watching eyes. The King knew exactly why his infuriating Fëanorion endured it, would not risk living alone. Tindómion did not trust himself.

During the next few days the guests would leave. Rosriel had failed, though she had been everywhere, imbued with a frenetic energy as she sought to introduce her son to every unmarried noblewoman. Brittle brightness had cracked her speech and laughter and now, when her son saw her approaching, he knew a desire to turn away, avoid this confrontation. He stood his ground.

"Dost thou think this is over?" she whispered. "It will never be over. I will not lose what I have because of thy perversions, Ereinion."

"And what dost thou have?" he inquired softly.

She swept out one arm. "This. This kingdom where I hoped thou wouldst rule as a great king with sons and daughters to follow thee."

"This is not thy kingdom. Thou hast not worked to build it or interested thyself in its governance. I think thou art mad, Lady." He walked past her hearing the echoes of her curse whispering against the marble walls.

Spurred by anger, he trod soundlessly up a wide flight of steps to Tindómion's chambers and knocked. There was no answer, but he sensed the other was within. Opening the door he found the rooms in darkness.

Tindómion lay on the bed, a sheet over him, one arm behind his head, eyes glassy with dream. Seeing him thus Gil-galad paused, simply gazing. There were no dreams of Maglor this night, it seemed, only deep peace. The king reached out and then withdrew his hand, laid himself on the cushioned settle and he too fell asleep.

As dawn flooded the chamber with pale gold, Tindómion woke and stretched, watching the running patterns of light on the ceiling above before he pushed back the covers and rose. His eyes fell upon the king, and he froze for a moment wondering when Gil-galad had entered, and why he had not wakened. His expression softened, and he went quietly to the bathing chamber, closing the door and pouring a goblet of light wine.

"I would guard thy rest Gil," he murmured as he stepped into the water. His heart beat light and fast as if he tasted a forbidden pleasure in being alone with his king. He allowed himself to wonder what it would be like to wake with Gil-galad in his bed, to reach for him. It was a dream that he had long ago decided was impossible to realize. And yet, he could not prevent himself from dwelling on it. As he tipped his head back under the flow, the music of the running water drifted him close to sleep again. The festal days had been a strain. He had sensed the slow-tightening rage within Rosriel, her utter determination to see her son suitably contracted and himself gone from Lindon. Neither seemed possible for her to effect, yet it concerned him. Why had Gil-galad allowed her to hold what was no less than a marriage-market? Or did he believe that it was his duty to marry, and that his nascent relationship with Tindómion would always be a bud, never unclenching its petals?

And so, out of a sense of pique and a desire to challenge, he lingered. Usually he would have washed swiftly and been dried and dressed already, his garments a shield against the physical betrayal of his need. This day he did not so arm himself. He tempted fate at times; it was irresistible. Somewhere within his deeper levels of consciousness he felt the need to prove that Gil-galad was his, that he was the king's, and no-one would ever come between them.

He felt the displacement of the water, the brush of firm flesh against his as Gil-galad sat down upon the shelf beside him. He lathered himself before placing his head under the flow of clean water from the ceramic pipes. Tindómion moved then, washed the mane of wet black hair. The soap cascaded through it and he lifted it from the bath where it spread like silk, draped it onto the tiles. The bath glimmered with rainbows and the water was opaque, effectively hiding his reaction.

"I did not wish to wake thee - it has been a difficult few days." Gil-galad rested his head back on the towels.

"It is over." From his voice no one could have guessed Tindómion's aching desire, the demolition of his rule that he would never bathe with his king. Swiftly, effortlessly, it had been broken and all of him burned. His head felt light, each sensation became extraordinarily magnified.

"If thou art referring to the matter of my mother's marriage brokering, that is not over."

"Unless thou doth _command_ her to desist!"  
Tindómion turned, stepping from the bath and presenting his back to Gil-galad, wrapping a towel about his waist. He did not speak until he had dried his hair and picked up a comb, drawing it almost savagely through the damp bronze mane.  
The king rose slowly and Tindómion picked up a towel and held it out. Water ran silver over Gil-galad's body, all of him erect and straight, yet he seemed unconcerned as he took the proferred towel. A bench was set before the long balcony, allowing the bather to sit in the warm sun during the summer. Standing behind his king, Tindómion tended his hair; the black river was thick as a windrow, without curl or tangle and flooded over his hands. When he had finished, he sat down beside him. Below in the gardens birds were singing and one of the gardeners hummed a tune.

"My people, even the most obtuse, must know by now that I have no plans to marry," Gil-galad said. "Let my mother do as she will. _One_ marriage will have been fostered here at least. Elrond has discovered the heart cannot be denied. Not the heart nor the body. And our bodies were not made to be denied, Istelion. They burn and do not give us rest. Yet rather that, than live in lies and unhappiness in an arranged marriage." The long lashes were closed over the star-bright eyes, and a pulse beat under the damp skin of Gil-galad's throat.  
"We are both the sons of loveless unions, it is not something I would inflict on the get of my body." He rose abruptly and walked into the bedchamber.  
"No doubt thou dost have clothes that will fit me?" His smile was faintly roguish. "Or I could ring for some to be brought from my chambers."

Tindómion's chin rose at the challenge. "I can clothe thee, but thou may call a servant if that is thy preference."

_ I care nothing for the rumors. _  
The unspoken statement hung in the air. Tindómion glanced at the bed. There was nothing to tell whether one person had used it, or two. He thought of the massage oils to hand, the unknown yet oft-imagined feel of his king's body, possessing him, being possessed. Their eyes met as Gil-galad's hand went out to the bell-rope.

"I fear thy colors are not mine, Istelion." He pulled.

"I think they suit thee well." Tindómion flung open a chest. The scent of lemon-balm and lavender wafted up as he drew out a lawn shirt and over-tunic.

"There is no need to dress formally today." The voice was behind him. He felt the towel tugged loose. It fell about his feet.

"We are not very formal now," he remarked, but the quip was lost in huskiness as Gil-galad pressed against his buttocks. Heat broke through him. He remembered the tent, the seclusion of the war-storm. Blood seethed and pounded in his ears.

The knock at the door sounded like thunder.

"Have my chamberer bring me day gear," the king said casually to the servant who entered.

Tindómion could not move forward without stepping over the oak chest, and moving back brought him in closer contact with Gil-galad. Yet he had to move. He turned within the ambit of the king's arms and their bodies touched. His lashes dropped as he stared, mesmerized, at the firm curve of the lovely mouth. It took no more than the smallest movement of his head to close the gap and touch them.

And... ah, by all the damned Powers, if _ this _ was wrong then Life itself was wrong. Their lips met, opened as if each wished to drink in the soul of the other. Tindómion heard himself groan deep in his throat, his hands drew down through the wet black hair, over the hard muscles. Gil-galad's fingers clenched hard on his back. Time fragmented and then was lost. They burned in a storm of fire, and their erections ground together, shocking nerve endings almost to agony.

"Sire..." The hesitant voice took a long moment to penetrate. Breathing deeply, eyes locked, they came apart.

"Leave the clothes," Gil-galad murmured. "My thanks."

Tindómion loosed him as the chamberer, his face impassive, laid the garments down and retreated. Porelon loved his King and would say nothing, but the young servant was a different matter; he was all eyes. Since it was already rumor that Gil-galad and Tindómion were lovers, this would run through the court like an autumn gale. Even if the servant only mentioned that the king had called him from these rooms, it would be enough.

"Let us ride out, Istelion." Gil-Galad glittered. Radiance shone through his skin and triumph blazed in his eyes as he turned away and donned his clothes.

"That would be pleasant, Sire."

They did not speak again but they walked from the room with a matched poetry in their bodies, as if no-one else existed in the world. ~

~~~


	40. ~ Storm Surge ~

~ The High Council had asked that Gil-galad and Tindómion come before them. They might not command, but did have the power to request if a matter was deemed important enough.

Tindómion had escorted his mother to Harlond, and remained there for some days. It was necessary for him to consider his feelings, to realize that the close friendship between he and the high king was only cat-ice over the inferno of desire. He had sometimes wondered if it was fostered by his own denial, was a phantom bloated by the self-control he exercised. Yet that wild storm-night in the wars, the tranquil morning in his room gave the lie to such excuses. A violent need lay under their courtly dance.

By the time he rode from Harlond, he had admitted to himself that he wanted the king to strike his objections aside, to knock his feet from under him so that he had no choice but to surrender. He needed to have it proven that Gil-galad's desire for him was strong enough to wink at the Laws and the repercussions. Every league which brought him closer to the palace heightened the excitement, the anticipation within him. He had covered half the distance when he saw riding toward him the unmistakable figure of Glorfindel, gold hair vivid in the morning. He reined in, the turbulent emotions within him stilled by a vague wariness.

Glorfindel wasted no words. With elegant control, he turned his horse and rode up alongside.  
"Thou art summoned, Istelion. The High Council calls for both thee and Gil-galad to speak before them. They would have sent messengers, I elected to come in their stead."

"They summon the high king?" Rage obliterated every other feeling. "Whom has called this?"

"Borniven and his cronies. Those who are friends and companions of Gil-galad decided that both of thee should go before them. The King himself agrees to it." Glorfindel's eyes caught the light in a flash, and as he looked into them, Tindómion saw that it was not reflected sunlight but fury.

Did Gil want this? Is that why he allowed others to witness us together?

He said furiously: "We are not lovers."

"Yes, so Gil told me. And I believe it, but few others will. There are enough people in the king's camp to support the both of thee, but they will ask for him to step down and for Elrond to take the mantle of the Kingship."

"I will spill blood before I see the crown pass from him!" In his fury he did not realise how very Fëanorion he looked and sounded.

"The crown will not pass from him to any other, Istelion." The words were so flat, so certain that they arrested Tindómion's temper.  
"Thou hast foreseen this?" he demanded.

"I have foreseen that there will be no King of Lindon save Gil-galad."

"That is not what I asked. Will there be any other High King?"

"I know not." Glorfindel bit off the words tersely. "I have told thee what I have seen, be content. But this means that thou must stand before the Council and state that thy feelings for the king are more than friendship. Many know this, but now thou must declare it – or be silent."

The fierce face was branded with flags of color over the high cheekbones.  
"I would rather stand before them admitting we were lovers than see him called to account for something he did not do! He need not explain to anyone!"

"Thou art tilting at the wrong person, Istelion!" Glorfindel's voice was hard. He watched as Tindómion's jaw clenched, his shoulders braced.  
"Forgive me. I will stand before them and tell them the entire truth." He touched his heels to his mounts sides and the stallion leaped into a gallop.

The environs of the palace were oddly quiet. As the two men entered the great inner ward, those there turned and fell silent. Others appeared at doors and windows. Tindómion faced a siege of eyes and he walked beneath the multitude of gazes as if going into battle.

Gradually figures moved, walked toward him, fell in behind, warriors he had trained from youth, whom he had commanded, fought with, hunted with. They did not speak, but their support was as tangible as a hand on his back. Tindómion, lance-straight, walked through the halls, under the great gallery where Rosriel stood with Erestor and Borniven, staring down at him. As he approached his chambers his silent honor guard melted away, but their unspoken comradeship still hung warm in the air about him.

Glorfindel said, as the door closed behind them: "It will be tomorrow. They desire Elrond to be here – to accept the High Kingship of the Elves."

 

***

 

Gil-galad had watched him ride in. He made no move save for the clench of his fingers against the stonework as he observed the Fëanorion's defiance. He looked as if he might challenge any who crossed him and that was what the King had desired to see. Too often had Tindómion drawn back on the very cusp.

They would not meet this night. Gil-galad did not believe that the Valar would punish a whole realm for the misdeeds of two people. No more did Glorfindel, who intended to speak at the council tomorrow. But he desired his people to trust him, to support him because he was their king, because he loved them, and he would not betray those who supported him by testing that trust to the limit.

 

***

 

The council was closed, which disappointed many. The councilors took their seats under the banners of their Houses and rose as one as the king entered. He rested his hands on the carven arms of the great chair and spoke.  
"We call Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower and Lord Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion."

The double doors swung wide as the two entered, one green and gold as summer, the other in wine-red and black. In the impassive calm of his face, Gil-galad's eyes shone with pride at their power and beauty. The light winked from their gems and hair, burned in their eyes. They bowed and went to their seats.

"Thou hast called me to council, my lords." The kings voice was wry. "Here am I. So – speak."

There was a rustle of cloth as Erestor came to his feet. His face was white, wiped of all emotion. Even his voice seemed clean of expression, as if he were speaking something learned by rote.  
"Sire, thy lady mother Rosriel has been prostrate these last three days with the shock of what has been revealed to us. We must put it to thee that thine unlawful behavior with Tindómion Maglorion may bring the wrath of the Valar upon all thy realm."

Vórimóro came to his feet opposite Erestor.  
"Thou chargest thine own King with an offense most grave. The High King need not answer unless evidence can be brought to prove the claim."

"Yet I will answer him," the King replied. "For surely Erestor's concern for the people of Lindon is laudable."  
Still he did not rise. He would have looked relaxed but for the white gleam of his knuckles. "Thou doth accuse," the word was carefully placed. "Istelion and I of unlawful behavior; let us not hover around the edges! of being lovers. Thou hast brought a private matter before the High Council because thou believeth that an act deemed unholy by the Valar will bring their anger upon all Lindon. And that indeed must be addressed. First, I call upon Lord Glorfindel to speak."

Glorfindel rose.  
"Only I have returned to Middle-earth from the Halls of Mandos," he said, enjoining silence. "I tell thee – and thou may believe it, that it is indeed true that the Valar punish those who break their Laws. I walked the gardens of Lórien, the empty mansions in Tirion. The Valar do not punish realms or a whole kindred or people, or those who serve the ones who perpetrate the crime." The last word was almost snarled; like a great tawny cat, Glorfindel looked at that moment. "Only those who break their thrice-damned Laws!

"Thou art punished, and admit it, and thou wouldst also blaspheme!" Borniven leaned forward. In contrast to Erestor's remoteness, he was livid with anger and revulsion. "How can we trust that thou doth tell the truth?"

"Thou wouldst say he lies?" Tindómion demanded, coming to his feet so fast his chair crashed back.

Glorfindel's aura burned white under his flesh.  
"The proof is in Valinor and thou may take ship as many do in these times. Indeed I wonder that thou hast not."

"We have a duty to protect others from becoming infected by thy pollution!" Borniven spat. "Even if it be true, those who look to their king, to Maglorion and to thee, may be influenced. It is for us to prevent that!"

"We ask thee to relinquish the high kingship, Ereinion Gil-galad." Erestor's words brought a clap of silence and then uproar. Men sprang up, pressed forward, were held back by their companions. Protestations rang from the marble walls.

"To my heir?" The king asked, his voice sliding like a dagger through the tumult.

"To Elrond Eärendilion," Borniven shouted. "To one of impeccable lineage and blood, son of the Blessed Mariner. To one not stained by doom and sin!"

Elrond cried out, his face coldly furious: "I do not want the crown. I have told thee: Gil-galad is my King."

"Then," a strange smile touched Borniven's face, "to another of noble house who puts his people before aught else and is wise and temperate. To Erestor!"

This time the cacophony was louder, the rich voices bringing forth a chime from the high pillars. There was a strange expression in Erestor's eyes, neither triumph or expectation, almost as if this day had been rehearsed and he knew the outcome, was merely performing. Glorfindel's eyes narrowed for a moment.

"Where was Erestor when Gorthaur's hosts drove us to the Lhûn?" Tindómion's golden voice was like a call to battle. "And thou Borniven? And the rest of thee who rank behind him? Others gave their lives for thy safety, their lives, their blood, the foremost of these was thy king, traitors all!"

"And thou art traitor to thine own people by leading them from the paths of truth!" Borniven shouted. "The usual argument from one who knows nothing but his sword hilt in one hand, and his cock in the other."

"Warriors with swords in their hands protected thee," Tindómion blazed. "They died while thou didst wait for news that the armies of the Enemy had broken through, and prayed for good winds to take thee out of the Havens! And thou wouldst not be here at all were it not for one who sacrificed his life for thee and the refugees of Gondolin!" Tindómion smashed onward, stepping through the throng to face Borniven. "Thou didst see Glorfindel die, yet didst thou refuse then to be saved by one who had a male lover?"

Glorfindel stood in a shaft of sunlight from the colored windows, an effigy in gold, his expression stern and impassive as cries encouraged Tindómion's speech.

"Yes! It is so! We will not have a king who sits at his scrolls and books of lore while his warriors shed their life-blood," Aeralagos called out, striding to Tindómion's side. "Thou wert not there those years of war! Thou didst not see! There is naught amiss with thee that thou canst not wield a blade save thine own cowardice, and thou wouldst stand before those who have died, taken wounds, those who did not spare themselves in thy defense and have the gall to ask the son of Fingon to relinquish the Kingship?"

"The House of Fingolfin carries a curse older than the Sun and Moon," Borniven shrieked. "The Doom may have been lifted from the Exiles for their part in the Kinslayings, but Glorfindel has admitted that those who act unnaturally are still subject to punishment! That blood is not fit to rule our people!"

Had the Elves been permitted to wear weapons into council they would have been drawn then.

"Not fit to rule?" Glorfindel's cry was like summer lightning, piercing the rising storm of violence. It echoed preternaturally against the walls and high ceiling, thrummed in the air as Tindómion, erupting with fury, reached out to catch a handful of Borniven's tunic.

"Fingolfin was the only Elf ever to meet Morgoth in single combat. Fingon brought Maedhros down from Thangorodrim, he drove Glaurung back to Angband. I watched as Gothmog approached him in the last hours of the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad – and he did not flinch. Gil-galad was at the forefront of the war against Sauron, and he had the strength of will to take Vilya from his hand when the Enemy revealed himself. It is true that not all wisdom is found in war or on the edge of a blade, but we live in a world where the Enemy has dwelt since it was founded. And if we do not fight we are overrun and doomed, as we were in the Year of Lamentation." Glorfindel's eyes swept the throng, glowing with white light. "Which of thee can say they have done such things? Whom is so great in their own esteem they would dare to despise the blood of Fingolfin, and yes, of Fëanor. They died in violence and in pain and under a doom it is true, but I tell thee this, Valinor is a place of shades now that they are gone."

The echoes ran away into silence. For a moment only strenuous breathing sounded and then Borniven said viciously: "They deserved their deaths."

The sound of the blow was shockingly loud.  
"That is for the insult visited upon my sire and grandsire."

Borniven's split lip sent a rivulet of blood down his chin; his face was patched with the backhanded slap from Gil-galad. He stumbled back. Erestor caught his arm and Glorfindel wondered at the councilor's calmness.  
He does not believe any of this. The thought was revelatory.

Gil-galad's eyes shone perilously as he stared around at the frozen faces.  
"Make thy wishes known. Speak now! Who desires Erestor to be their King?"

There were a few low murmurs.  
"No! Step forth, show thyselves, let us know thee, see thy faces!"

Three Elves, including Borniven came forward, standing in the gem-coloured light from the windows.

"And who desires me to retain the throne?"

Elrond paced forward, Círdan, who though Lord of the Havens was, by his age and wisdom, also a member of the High Council, Baesel and Borin, once companions of Gil-galad. They stared challengingly at the others. Tindómion moved, and Glorfindel caught his arm.

Thou art too involved in this. They will not count either of us. Glorfindel felt the quiver through Tindómion's muscles as if he would leap forward.

The great doors opened silently, and at the intrusion Gil-galad's head turned angrily. Rosriel, white as lint, in cloth of gold and pearls swept into the room and crossed to Erestor, glaring hate at her son.

"So we are equal," Borniven said loudly. "I suggest that..."

"Wait." The voice came from the still-open door. It was deep and carrying, but its pitch was of silver; a woman's voice. Galadriel shone as she strode into the center of the chamber. She inclined her head to Gil-galad.

Rosriel looked as if she had bitten into a sloe. Borniven's face darkened into rage.

"I suggest," the King said, "that those who do not wish to serve on my council now retire from it. I will not banish thee from Lindon, but I will not have thee in the palace or my presence again."

"Thou canst not do this," Rosriel hissed.

"They have proved themselves wise enough in matters of commerce and law, mother, so then, let them now prove that they are fit to remain by training for battle. And if war comes again, which we believe, then let them protect their people. Thus they may regain their rank, in time." He raised his brows. "Well?"

"I need prove nothing to thee, any of thee. I have done naught to be dismissed from the High Council " Borniven dabbed at his cut lip. " Nothing but speak the truth, that thou art no fit King if thou dost lie with the cursed Fëanorion!"

"And one word more from thee and thou wilt meet me. And I need no weapon."

"Do not speak to me, Maglorion. Thy very presence here is contamination! What good fruit can grow from such a tree?" He flushed plum-red, gagged on his choler. "The sons of Fëanor were as crooked as their father, and thou wilt lead the king to his doom!"

"We are not lovers." Gil-galad's voice was contemptuous. "If we were, I would not deny it."

Tindómion's eyes flashed to his for a moment, spark meeting spark.

"It is only a matter of time," Borniven returned. "Is not the desire where all begins? The thought?"

"Send him away!" Rosriel's voice edged close to a scream. "Send him away and wed and save thyself. "

"I do not speak to thee." Her son glanced back. "Although I must admit I am...surprised. But thou hast ever sought power. With Erestor as king thou wouldst have more than I grant thee, for a while at least. Istelion has proved himself to me an hundred times over. I will never send him away. And I claim the right of absolute kingship to appoint to my Council whom I wish, and to strip them of that office if they prove themselves unworthy. And thou didst seek to dethrone a king, with no proof to offer save that we were seen together? Now get thee hence!"

"Seen together naked, and in one another's arms," Borniven spat out blood with the words.

"And yet, I tell thee that we are not lovers." Gil-galad's tone was quiet and flat as a sheet of lead. "Wilt thou accuse me to my face of lying? I can demand that thou dost prove it with thy body." Which would mean a beating, and Borniven knew it.

"We are not lovers," Tindómion averred. "And to prove this and my love for the King who is the only King I will ever recognize I will leave Lindon."

_Thou wilt not!_ The king's denial exploded in his mind.

"For a time, while this is resolved."

"Thou art welcome in Imladris, Istelion," Elrond said. "As are all people of goodwill."

"I thank thee." Tindómion inclined his head.

"For how long dost thou propose to be away from thy duties here?" Gil-galad sounded remote, but under it lay the straining chords of anger.

"Until I am needed, sire."

 

***

 

_My dear son, _

Elrond has written to me that thou art often away from Imladris, and I know what drives thee. At times I find myself praying to Eru that thou wilt never find thy father until love replaces hate in thy heart.

Thou wilt know of the rumors of the rise of the Dark Power in the east. At times Elves who have traveled from beyond the Towers of Mist come to Lindon, but we know that in Greenwood and Lórinand, realms established under King Amdir and King Oropher continue to grow. None know now what hope to place in the Men of Númenor, who do not come here. There are disquieting rumors. The shadow lengthens slowly, like the shadow of a mountain with the setting sun behind it.

Tindómion, the years have spun by, and yet thou wilt not return. We miss thee.  
The Lady Rosriel still dwells in the great villa the king built for her and gathers her supporters about her. Erestor is sometimes a guest when he is not in Imladris. Elrond said that thou doth both avoid one another. He has said other things about Erestor, which I am not at liberty to share, but suffice it to say, I believe that he has been too long influenced by Rosriel. I wish I might have fostered him as a child. There is, I think, more to him than has been apparent, and it is possible he may remove entirely to Imladris.

Rosriel asks the king to permit her to return to the palace, to reinstate Erestor and Borniven, but Gil-galad will not be moved.

There is something great at hand, I feel it in my soul and on my skin like cold rain, and I am not the only one. The king has dreamed of Mordor and of Númenor. I ask thee to return. I beg thee to come home. For him.

~~~

Folding the vellum, Tindómion looked out into the gardens. Apple blossoms burst white and pink upon the old trees in Elrond's garden as they had for countless springs. He rose and leaned on the balcony and closed his eyes.

The silence had lengthened until it seemed impossible for him to believe that there had been any closeness between he and Gil-galad. But the memories were ever with him, scored into his mind. He had come to Imladris, then traveled back to the coasts, driven by restlessness. He had seen the tundra about Forochel, the fierce coastline of northern Forlindon and harped into sea spray and gale, to starlit nights and pale dawns. Nothing ever answered him, yet he knew his father lived.

Gil-galad could have summoned him back. He never had. Was it pride? Had pride become indifference? His mother's letters revealed nothing. He did not know her thoughts on the matter only that she would not have condemned him for loving the king. Yet she was his mother, and would not see him doomed for his acts either.

And so the years passed.

The letter crumpled in his fist.  
  
_The King has dreamed of Mordor and of Númenor._

So had he. The ships of the Númenoreans had long since ceased to come openly to Lindon, only at whiles would one lone vessel appear. The island race had grown proud and decadent it was said, and many had turned from the old ways. The king Ar-Pharazôn was rumored to hate and envy the Elves.

For a long time the knowledge that Gil-galad had the friendship of Númenor had stayed Sauron's hand, kept his thoughts turned east and south. Lindon had continued to prosper, yet was on a perpetual war-footing and more than once the concern had been voiced that if Ar-Pharazôn's mounting ambition extended to conquering lands in the north, the Elves would face two enemies, Mordor and Númenor.

"Istelion?"

He turned his head and looked at Glorfindel.  
"I am ready," he said.

 

***

 

The entourage from Imladris rode into the ward of the palace on a mild grey day of southerly winds which rippled the silver and blue pennons from the towers. Tindómion had been silent during the journey. He had dwelt so often and so long on memories that he could not prepare himself for seeing Gil-galad in the flesh. Neither could he guess what the High King felt now.

Through the calls of welcome, the bustle of the greeting, the stamp of hooves on cobbles, his eyes were drawn to Gil-galad as if he were the only one who existed. The people became nebulous as autumn mist. He did not feel himself dismount. There was only the movement, himself toward Gil-galad, the king toward him, until they stood face to face.

He was scorched by the brilliance of the star-blue eyes. There was no air to breathe, and his spirit burned up until his flesh could not encompass it. They did not touch. All of them touched.

"Istelion." The word was a deep murmur. "Welcome home."

 

***

 

The rain fell in threads, straight as lances, a soft rain of late spring, rich with birdsong. The air was warm, filled with the scent of hawthorn and lilac as heavy as smoke. Bathed and dressed behind the locked doors of his chambers, Tindómion wove his hair into braids, willing his fingers to steadiness. On the second attempt he tugged his bronze locks apart impatiently, and then stilled as there came a knock at the outer door. For a measure of heartbeats he did not move, even as those heartbeats increased in rapidity, drumming their own acclamation in his ears.

Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change.

He rose abruptly, raised the bar, turned the key and swung the door open, stepping back. He knew who was there as clearly as if he had been able to see through the polished oak.

The King said nothing as Tindómion closed the door again. The world contracted to become this one place holding only the two of them.

"It has been so long," Gil-galad murmured as if to himself.

"I said I would return when I was needed."

The High King laughed wryly.  
"Well then, I have need of thee now."

All things unspoken seethed under the surface, every thought, every turning year of longing. Their eyes challenged and clung to one another even as Tindómion moved to lift a jug of chilled wine.

"I had a letter from my mother. She spoke of dreams. Glorfindel and Elrond have also dreamed, as have I." He offered the goblet, courtesies overlaying the tumult with a thin veneer of politeness.

"So have I. But there is more now. That is why I summoned Imladris. A ship came from Númenor."

"What news did they bring?"

"It came in secret, unknown to Ar-Pharazôn. He is sailing to the port they founded in the south: Umbar. It is said he will march on Mordor."

Tindómion swore in wonder. "And that is why...Do we join with him?"

The king shook his head. "We were told of this by one who fled from Númenor with his family. He is one of those they call the Faithful, who adhere to the older beliefs. Ar-Pharazôn does not see us as his allies, Istelion. He persecutes the Faithful. No. He wishes to confront Sauron himself. And the fleet that sails is immense."

"Perhaps Númenor can defeat Mordor?" It was an intoxicating thought. "And if he does, what then will Ar-Pharazôn seek?"

Gil-galad raised his brows a little. "I fear a great deal more. We know Sauron's influence is vast, we know that the might of Westernessë is as great. If they battle, one or the other will fall and their power be greatly lessened, but whomever the victor it may bode ill for the Elves of Middle-earth." Tindómion stared into the pale wine and his brows drew together. "Has anyone been sent to Umbar?"

"No. And none will be sent. No."

"I did not even suggest..."

"It was on the edge of thy lips. I am not losing thee again when thou hast only just returned to me."

Silence throbbed between them. Colour mantled both their cheeks. Still their eyes held.

"I did what was best for thee." Tindómion's voice came soft as the fall of the rain.

"Truly? Glorfindel told me that Erestor had no real desire to be king, as Elrond did not. My throne was truly in no danger. And thou art astute enough to know it. My closest companion left me without a look back."

"And who took my place? Vórimóro?"

The shadow of a smile touched Gil-galad's mouth. "Ah, do I hear jealousy?"

"He loves thee. And his love is pure."

"Is it so? And all love is pure." Long fingers settled on Tindómion's cheek. He could scarcely resist the temptation to lean into them, lace his own with them, draw the King toward him.

"There is naught more pure than fire, Nárya. "

"Gil..." The name was tasted, sighed through lips that longed to kiss, he held himself still as the hand moved, ran through his dishevelled hair.

"Thou wilt not leave again, and that is a command." The voice became steel, the fingers in his hair clenched and a thrill struck through Tindómion.

"Thou couldst have commanded my return," he murmured.

"And why should I have to? But thou art here now." The hand was withdrawn, touched the sculpted mouth briefly and then Gil-galad turned away.  
"Tell me of thy dreams."

Tindómion was amazed at the calmness of his reply. He answered through a hot haze of desire.  
"I have not seen much. A great army...a dark tower in a barren land..." He thought he saw the tall form brace. "My father..."

The King looked along one wide shoulder. "I am sorry thou didst not find him."

"He is not dead."

"I believe thee. It seems the greater punishment is to live alone, without those we need and love." Bitterness limned the words and Tindómion stepped forward, his lips parting. Gil-galad shook his head.

"Will we never be more than this?"

" We can never be, Gil."

The irony.

 

***

 

The atmosphere continued strained between them, and perhaps that somewhat masked the unease which grew in Tindómion in the next days. The weather grew warmer, and he rode to Harlond with Glorfindel to visit his mother. She welcomed them with delight, but when Tindómion saw her walking with Glorfindel, her face was grave. How much did she guess? Everything, he suspected. To his face she showed only the unalloyed love he had always known. In any event she did not allude to Gil-galad.

It came upon him one drowsy afternoon. It was as hot as Midsummer, and after a council in the morning, Tindómion spent some time training, then went to his rooms. He bathed and sat back, poured wine and drank it, paced the room restlessly as a feeling of dread grew upward from the bottom of his heart. At last he slept and the dream was waiting for him like a predator.

After, he could only remember glimpses, pain obliterated all else. He did not know that a servant had run to the King, who sent for Fanari. He was unaware that Gil-galad, Glorfindel and his mother watched him, tried to aid him as he was held within the agonies which were visited upon another of his own blood – upon his father.

And then came the pleasure. He hung in blackness and stillness after the torment ended and part of him, lost a long way away, felt only relief. He did not wish to emerge from it, but when the surges of desire began he moved, moaned. There was the sensation of lips, hands, tongue over him, touching parts of him which responded with shameless eagerness. He reached out, reached through the surface of the dream.  
Gil...  
He felt his hardness sheathed in a mouth and he writhed. Fingers slipped up his body to his shoulders.

"Thou art beautiful..." a voice murmured throatily and the words seemed to echo in his mind, spoken by two voices, one familiar, one strange.

He reached out, clasped and pulled his dream-lover into a ravenous kiss, and then, in a wrestlers move, tumbled him down onto the bed.

Gil-galad offered himself with a fierceness that burned Tindómion to the core. His need was so savage that even as he felt the resistance of the tight muscle he thrust with the force of long denied hunger and breached it. And there he was, at last, encased by hot, hot flesh. The pain of the penetration brought a hissed groan from deep within Gil-galad's throat and his fingers clamped into the sheets. Tindómion drew back, plunged in again. The next cry was overlaid with astonished pleasure, the king bucked up as Tindómion's pace grew more frenzied, more wild, each thrust taking them further into the storm which broke as they were transformed and melded by the joining. Gripping the king's engorged length, Tindómion's rhythm quickened in gasping rapture. He was within the star which blazed white heat at its core; Gil-galad burned in Fëanorian fire. And both were consumed.

They spent together, fell together, still joined. Clouds of bronze hair curtained them both as Gil-galad turned his head and their lips touched and opened. Tindómion throbbed with ecstasy so profound that his murmured words were inaudible. He could do no more than feel, breathe, until the last dregs of the dream dissolved and he opened his eyes, looking into silver-blue ones which shone with something very like triumph.

"Gil?" he whispered.

"Istelion?" So filled with rich love, so redolent of what they had shared.

"I felt..." He looked around, his brows drew together as he recalled the agonies of his dream, yet his flesh felt only the aftermath of intense pleasure. "I thought...Forgive me."

"For what ?" The demand was curt. The high king raised himself, his gaze immovably fixed upon the hot silver eyes.

"For this...I have been dreaming..."

"It was no dream. Something evil assaulted thy soul. It is gone, and what just passed, lover, was no dream !"

Tindómion rose quickly, braced himself against the wall as he staggered and felt an arm steady him. "I felt...as if I were being seduced..."

"Yes. I did seduce thee," Gil-galad murmured into his ear, and laughed softly.

"But...Hells! I have doomed thee!" What have I done? I will not see thee damned!  
Tindómion pushed himself upright and away from the king's hold. He would not look at him, could not afford to see Gil-galad as he was now, all starlight and passion.  
"I will repent," he choked on the words, knowing he could not, did not. Slamming the door of the bathing chamber shut behind him, he leaned against it for a long moment, eyes closed.

"Repent?" Gil-galad called. "Repent well enough for both of us then! For I will not!" The outer door crashed behind him.

 

***

 

"And dost thou repent?"

"Of what it may bring down on him, yes!"

"But the act? " Glorfindel took the firm chin in his hand. Pain shadowed Tindómion's eyes, but they burned like polished steel with a sudden furious light, as he remembered the savage thrill of possessing Gil-galad.  
"No." His teeth set. "I do not regret it. And I curse the Valar for tainting something so glorious with their poisonous Law."

"Yes," Glorfindel murmured, and kissed his brow. "So do I." ~

 

~~~


	41. ~ Destroyer Of Peace ~

 

 

  
~The darkest place.  
  
Even its name had been only a vague shadow of unease on the edge of his consciousness, something heard in a dream, until the day when it became real and smashed into his stubborn, hapless existence.  
  
Perhaps another time on the wheel would have shattered him. When he was lifted from it, he only knew how to resist, his soul hidden behind the last bastion that torment could not touch.  
  
When he woke and saw the tall Elf with the barbaric tattoos, he thought of a dream he had once had, long ago, on Amon Ereb, of an ashen land, a great tower and his father standing on the lifeless plain, turning toward him. For one moment, in that dream, the brilliant eyes had gleamed violet.  
As this man's did.  
His life before the ruin was bright in his mind, and the long years since were only fragmented images and sounds, the sigh of the sea, the lament of a voice in the waste. He listened to it sometimes, wishing it would cease.  
  
In this place, the voice had ceased at last. He knew if he begged for mercy he would be broken. At the end, all he could see, all he could remember was his father; the memory that burned the brightest of all.  
_His father would not have broken._  
  
_He_ had not been broken on the wheel, in the trough of orc-filth but his spirit was polluted, and of his own volition he began to die – and found death's portal barred by the strange man, who had touched the smoldering embers that Fëanor had first roused in Tirion. And he could _not_ resist the onslaught of sensation, the lips and hands on him, playing him like a lyre, bringing him out of lethargy into life. His cold flesh flushed with blood, he hardened so swiftly it was painful and then felt the enclosing mouth, the tongue, taking him, swallowing him, working him until he exploded into ecstasy and relief. After so much agony, the pleasure was shocking. He sank, still panting, into healing sleep. When he woke, the stranger was still there.  
  
_ "I am no-one," _ the man said, when Maglor's mind questioned. "_I am nothing._" There was a self-mocking smile deep in the rich eyes.  
  
Nothing? He became everything, something to hate as Maglor hated his own weakness in succumbing here, in this place, to what was lavished upon him. No-one? Save for those unnatural eyes he was _Golodh_ to his bones with those white-carven features and hard, lovely mouth. He was very tall, with a carriage kings would have envied, yet he said he was a thrall, a servant of Sauron. Maglor lusted for him, for the relentless seduction, and detested himself for it.  
When he was taken, possessed not in rape, but in glory, he felt as if Ages of hunger had been sated. There was nothing but this chamber, the red-tinged sky through the barred windows, the hot-wine of sex.  
  
He knew his mind was in shock, recognized the odd lassitude which lay on it, leaving his body to feel, his senses to experience – everything. He yearned for it. He was a dessicated land under rain, and he was still recovering, not only from torture, but from the befogged years where he had drifted between life and death.  
He _needed_ this and he was not the only one. The stranger took him as if he too were starving. His possession was unselfish, generous. Maglor was savored like wine.  
  
"Hate me, Maglor, thy hate is so.._stimulating..._" The throaty voice came to him through the pulse of blood in his ears, an his groin, "_Live_ to hate me..." And Maglor arched up against the man's body, his fingers sliding through thick hair, onto the hard flesh, exploring it while their mouths fused in heated, savage kisses, offering himself, feeling himself penetrated, pushed upward into a shower of burning starlight.  
  
It was easier to think of nothing, for one moment to become every moment, for the world to be only this room, with its scent of spices, the slide of skin-on-skin, the silk of hair. His mind stoked hate like a fire, against himself, the thrall, his own traitorous body.  
  
Tremors shook through him in arrhythmic bursts as the man withdrew, teasing him after his hard strokes had brought Maglor to the very edge of release, and then paused, still within him, stretching him, holding his hips. His soft laugh was rough with strain, but he withheld until Maglor pushed back, desperate for that hard length to take him more deeply, touch that place which sent pleasure striking through his nerves. But the hands held him fast, and the voice whispered: "Wait, beauty, wait. Thou canst not know how long _I_ have waited for this."  
  
Maglor refused to speak; his own will had rendered him mute against Sauron's torture, but his body was eloquent, glossed with the fine dew of perspiration. He arched, his head tossing back in frustration, hair falling damp onto his back.  
  
"Beautiful..." The man pushed slowly, tormentingly, a little further, a little deeper, until without warning he thrust hard, forcing Maglor higher, higher, until he could have screamed for release. The thrall's hand wrapped about him, urged him to that place where the storm broke, heat within, heat without, all of him aflame.  
  
When at last his gasping breaths stilled, he could not fight the irresistible undertow of sleep.  
  
  
***  
  
  
"Where is he?"  
  
"He rode out, Gil."  
  
"Ridden away, again I doubt not. He cannot ride far or fast enough to flee this!" Gil-galad flung the words from him as if they were spears.  
  
"He will not leave this time." Glorfindel poured wine.  
  
The expression on the king's face was so familiar. He could have been Fingon, in Tirion, after he had finally become Maedhros' lover, it could be Fëanor, that strange mingling of glowing satiation and triumph. Glorfindel knew how the king felt, the rush of hot blood within the memories of ecstasy, vivid and arousing.  
  
"Why art thou so sure?" Gil-galad took the goblet.  
  
"Believe me, he will not flee. It has come to this point, he will not turn his back. He left for thee, the last time. I understand that, and so dost thou."  
  
"I do not accuse him of cowardice, Glorfindel, but of refusing to face this thing which has always been between us." He ran his thumb over the chased silver of the cup. "Thou art not surprised?"  
  
"No, Gil. But I could not, in good conscience, advise thee one way or another, knowing what I know. When Mandos calls thee, thou wilt be expected to repent, and there is no hiding thy soul from him."  
  
"I will not repent of it. As my father was judged, so shall I be."  
  
Glorfindel drew a hand down the thick fall of black hair and their brows touched. Gil-galad sighed.  
"Did he tell thee? He was resting, after the pain – and we still do not know what caused that. I thought, perhaps the time that he bore that ring that Annatar made for me, which was destroyed...?" His forehead was hot.  
  
"I wondered the same thing, but this felt wholly different." Glorfindel pondered. "There is no shadow on him, Gil, if that is what thou wouldst ask. I think it is not that, I very much fear that it is his father."  
  
"I feared it, also," the king agreed, "I know not what else it could be."  
  
They drew apart, their eyes somber.  
  
"Had Istelion felt his father's death he would have said so." Glorfindel was certain of that. "I do not know, I cannot yet read this riddle. But he came to me and asked me to flog him. He is afraid for thee, not of the act, he is not ashamed of his love, only what it will bring to thee."  
  
"It cannot be undone, and I will not repent of it. Ever." Gil-galad moved back and leaned against the wall. After a moment he said, more softly, "Is this how it felt for thee?"  
  
"Yes, although I was not in love with Fëanor."  
  
"Whatever it was had released its hold on him – on Maglor – and he was at peace and then...something happened." The silver blue-eyes rose from the wine-cup. "It was as if some-one invisible to me were... seducing him." Glorfindel frowned at that, his gaze intent. Gil-galad continued, "It was too much. _He_ was too much. And if he protests it was a dream then he lies."  
  
"Is that what he said?"  
  
"Ah, he knows it was no dream, even if it began as such. damn him! Will he turn away now? After this? _Can he?_" he demanded. "It has not quenched the fire, only made it burn more strongly."  
  
"Fire calls to fire," Glorfindel said. "I know how it is. I know how it was." As the king leaned against the cool marble, gazing at him with that flushed looked of passion and arousal, he drew out the memories, to share his understanding. ~  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
** Valinor. The Years Of The Trees.**  
  
  
There had been no warning that day, nothing had hinted at what was building, but the foundations had been laid long before. He had not forgotten, but he had come to believe the other had.  
  
In this wide, sunlit chamber in Lindon, Glorfindel traced back the threads of what had happened and still did not understanding why. With faultless memory, he stepped through time and the past embraced him, and let him in...  
  
He had rarely spoken to Fëanor. The High Prince of the Noldor held himself aloof from the younger Eldar, save his own sons. He was a figure of awe in Tirion. Once only had Glorfindel earned any recognition from him, back in the days when Melkor had spoken to them of weapons, and the Noldor began to train with them. Before that, their competitions had been unarmed, wrestling running, archery and athletic skills; under Melkor's tutelage, swords, daggers and axes were forged, and the Noldor learned how to wield them.  
At first at had simply been another challenge for a people who delighted in new skills, in their strength and speed. There was no anger, only bruises and cuts which swiftly healed. Often laughter accompanied the bouts of sparring and Glorfindel had been laughing with Ecthelion that day, as both had disengaged. They were naked to the waist and Glorfindel had allowed his eyes to linger upon Ecthelion's chest, which was as close as he had come to admitting desire, until the weight of another gaze brought him around.  
  
Fëanor and Fingolfin had been there, standing close together. Not far away Maedhros and Fingon were joined in a swift flurry of parry and strike. Was Glorfindel the only one who saw the mirrored intimacy in their movements? He assumed that their fathers had come to observe them.  
  
It was well known that Fëanor had no love for Fingolfin or Finarfin, though none had heard him demean them; he simply ignored their existance. Yet now his shoulder all but touched Fingolfin's and there was a look of wildness about the half-brothers. Fëanor's eyes burned over Glorfindel in leisurely appraisal – and Glorfindel forgot everything else. Those famous eyes were as diamonds blazing in fire. A smile touched the sculpted mouth, and Fëanor inclined his head slightly.  
  
That was the first time. Something deep within Glorfindel was afraid of Fëanor, and he had deliberately avoided the High Prince after that day. Not long after, he quarreled with his his father, who, seeing his unlawful desire for Ecthelion, warned him that he trod the edge of sin. Thus Glorfindel walked away and was disowned.  
  
He had been hawking with Ecthelion and, approaching the north gate, had seen Fëanor riding in with Maglor. It had been a long time since Glorfindel had seen Fëanor, but he knew Maglor well and raised a hand. His greeting was returned with a smile, but Fëanor gazed for a moment with an expression half-curious, half-predatory, before father and son passed through the gates and out of view. It had reminded Glorfindel why he avoided Fëanor, and he had felt oddly unsettled as he returned to his home, bathed and lay down to relax. The light of the Trees had waned to silver. It was a time when many rested in Valinor.  
  
Most, but not all.  
  
It was Ofelmo's voice which roused him, raised not in anger, but in protest and even fear. Glorfindel heard no steps, but he _felt_ the energy which approached, and he knew who had come unannounced to his house.  
  
The outer door opened and the sensation of power pushed like a wall into the room as Fëanor swept in.  
  
"A golden lion." His voice was throaty.  
  
Glorfindel jerked upright, lips parting, and was thrust back by hands with the strength of steel. He stared into an inferno – there was no other word to describe those eyes – and Fëanor's will held him in a grip stronger than his hands.  
  
"Our time here comes to an end, Laurëfindë. Swear fealty to me and follow me."  
  
"My Lord..?" He was overwhelmed. Fëanor's presence in his bedchamber, was so potent that he could not marshal his thoughts. Any thoughts. That magnetism had never been turned full on him before, he had only caught the edges of it.  
  
"My fealty is to Turgon, my Lord." The desire in Fëanor's eyes felt like a blow. He realized, with astonishment and horror, that he was hardening under the silk coverlet.  
  
"Thou dost follow Turgon, are his companion, thou art not sworn to him yet save by friendship." Fëanor straddled him. "I have watched thee for a long time, Laurëfindë Los'lóriol, watched how thine eyes have devoured Ecthelion, yet thou art not lovers."  
  
Glorfindel pushed himself up, met the hard body and was forced back down. He tried to sink further into the bed to retreat from the fire coming alive within him. Fury gave his limbs strength, and his blow caught Fëanor on the jaw.  
  
"The Golden Flower should not be thine emblem." It was a deep growl, almost amused, and the return blow was a kiss. Glorfindel had kissed Ecthelion, but both drew back from more. The laws were adamant that sexual love between two men, or two women was forbidden. The sparring between Glorfindel and Ecthelion often waxed rough as both sought to vent the passion that they could not give rein to.  
  
But this kiss invaded his blood. It was delivered with the expertise of a craftsman and the power of a warrior, and then he was drowning, sinking in an ocean of flame which scorched and stopped his breath.  
  
_ Ecthelion..!_  
  
Thou canst have him, if thou hast courage enough!   
  
He surfaced long enough to bite down hard on the full lower lip. Fëanor drew back with a hiss and Glorfindel saw the flare of anger. Then there was blood in his mouth. He struggled, felt his hands slammed back behind his head, and his flesh touched hot skin. His stomach contracted as Fëanor's engorged erection pushed against it.  
  
"_No!_" His eyes widened. He felt that he was not seeing a man but a vessel which housed something elemental and perilous. He raised a hand and his arm was caught, he was flipped neatly to his stomach, felt a cascade of heavy hair flood over his back. The arm-lock was not cruel but it was a vise, unbreakable. He cried out in alarm and then horror as fingers invaded his tight passage, stretching him and he felt the nudge of the hard shaft.  
  
_Oh, Holy Eru! _ The invasion was so shocking that he bit the silk sheets. It broke through him like an explosion, searing, unbearable and he knew he could not fight it and must die of it. His soul bayed in anguish at the violation. He felt only the slam into him, the withdrawal, the hot iron of the pain, the hands which held his hips. He groaned and then, appalling in its unexpectedness, something changed. Through the pain came a burst of pleasure, spreading, melded with it, and each time Fëanor thrust the sensation intensified. A hand clasped his own burgeoning hardness and he cried out. His frantic moans and Fëanor's purrs rose together until with a molten detonation he came to release.  
  
His body throbbed with the penetration, shivered in spasms of an ecstasy all the more violent for being so wrong. But his spirit rebelled, knew he had been forced, pushed to the brink of screams which only pride and unbelief had held back. It seemed to enlarge, strain against the confines of his form as if it desired to flee it.  
  
He fell into the black dark. From somewhere, very far away, he was still aware of the protests of his body and the terrible, wondrous pleasure...  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
There was silence in the room. Gil-galad watched him with his brows drawn together. From somewhere came the sound of a lyre played softly, the silvery voice of a maiden raised in accompaniment.  
"My last thought was that my innocence had been taken from me, and that I had betrayed the one I did truly love." His mouth bent a little. "And I did lose Ecthelion then, in truth. My soul fled – and it was brought back."  
  
The slanting sun struck on the goblets, sparked from silver and amber. Gil-galad watched him, silently. ~  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
The darkness was calling him to rest. A voice whispered his name.  
"Come," it said, cold with disapproval, and voracious with an appalling hunger. Glorfindel's soul flinched in horror from it. And then a light, radiant and powerful, blasted the voice into smoke and nothing. He was within the fire, and it consumed him, pouring forth from a well behind the eyes which commanded him, drew his soul back within the confines of his body.  
  
Something bound his brow, something which sent scintillating rays over the faces of Fëanor and Fingolfin as they watched him, and then Fëanor lifted it from him. The Silmarilli set within the circlet raged with furious light.  
  
"Thou wilt live." It was an order, and Glorfindel could not disobey.  
  
Fingolfin leaned forward, his expression complex, concerned. He turned and poured wine, raised Glorfindel who swallowed and choked.  
"If he had died thou wouldst be banished at the least!" Fingolfin threw at his half-brother furiously.  
  
"He will not die."  
  
"He was dying! What in the Void ails thee? Is one never enough?" Fingolfin rose, confronted Fëanor, and even with his mind dazed by pleasure and pain and flame, Glorfindel felt the heat between them.  
_ But they hate one another. _  
  
"I wanted him, and he wanted also – to be shown what he could be! Thou shouldst understand." One corner of the haughty, passionate mouth lifted. "Thou didst want the same, but it was _I_ who had to choose the time."  
  
Fingolfin raised a hand in a warning gesture, and his eyes blazed. They looked so alike then, it was as if Glorfindel was seeing the resemblance for the first time.  
  
"Thou doth _want_ too much," he snapped. "Thou hast done enough! Leave him with me."  
  
"I have done enough indeed. For now," Fëanor agreed with a flashing smile as he left the room. "Come to me later," he tossed over one shoulder with a fey gleam, and Glorfindel thought the words aimed at Fingolfin, or perhaps at himself. Or both. Then he was gone. The air still quivered as if a great fire had blown through it.  
  
Fingolfin released his breath. "It hurts, I know, but it will fade."  
  
Glorfindel leaned against his chest, feeling the heartbeat, fast with anger. He did not wish to speak; all his thoughts were inextricably bound with his body, and Fingolfin seemed to understand, for he said nothing more, simply held him until he began to relax.  
  
Glorfindel did not leave the villa the next day. He ached in unfamiliar places, winced when he moved, which shamed him, he who considered himself a warrior, if an untested one. He would have believed that the reason he hurt so was because the act was indeed wrong, but for the way that the startling pleasure had over-ridden the pain. Fëanor were as skilled at seduction and loving as he was at making. From agony, he had forged ecstasy. Glorfindel felt oddly tender all over, as if both his flesh and spirit were healing after a burn. He saw things through eyes and senses which seemed scoured of a mist he had walked in all his life. The light of the Trees was pale compared to Fëanor's brand on his soul.  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
"He placed the Silmarilli on thee?" Gil-galad looked astonished. "I believed, from what I have heard, that he begrudged the sight of them to all but his sons."  
  
"Fëanor understood the power of the Silmarilli more than any-one. And I believe the Valar did covet them." Glorfindel's eyes were far in the past. "Perhaps Yavannah hallowed them to make them less perilous, but in that she did not succeed. What I did not understand at first, was what they truly were. The Silmarilli were more than the captured light of the Trees. They held Fëanor's wild-fire; they were part of him. _He_ was the Silmarilli. His creations held himself, his spirit, just as the Three Rings were created with something of Celebrimbor's own soul."  
  
"So is that why, even though his hands were...unclean, he could touch them and not be burned as Morgoth was?" Gil-galad wondered.  
  
"They did mark his hands, but ultimately, he was their creator and mastered them," Glorfindel said. "I doubt any other could."  
  
There was a soft rap on the door which turned both their heads.  
"Enter," Glorfindel called softly.  
  
Tindómion came in. His hair had darkened to black after bathing and he could have been Fëanor. His eyes were full of light.  
But Fëanor would never have flushed and balked at seeing the one who had been his lover so short a time before, or hesitated before he trod further into the room. That was Maglor, not Fëanor, the compunction and perhaps the care that his grandsire had not possessed. The momentary consternation was not that of shame or embarrassment however. Under it, Tindómion blazed with passionate heat.  
  
"Excuse me," he said, his voice deep and throaty, dragging his eyes from Gil-galad. "I can come back."  
  
"I am speaking of Fëanor, Istelion, perhaps thou shouldst stay. Some of it I know thou hast dreamed of, or guessed." He poured more wine and after a faint hesitation, Tindómion sat, his gaze fixed upon Glorfindel as if to use him as an anchor against the tidal-pull of the high king.  
  
Glorfindel rose, searching the arrogant face for a moment, then cupped it in his hands.  
  
"Dost thou remember anything?" The smooth skin under his palms grew warm.  
  
"I have been thinking, riding, and trying to...but I remember nothing but pain, voices..."  
  
"What did they say?"  
  
Tindómion frowned. "Kinslayer..." The word was bitter, dragged through his lips.  
  
"Thou art no kinslayer," Glorfindel felt his heart ache. But Maglor was.  
  
"I thought some-one said; _'Thou art beautiful.'_"  
  
"Yes,_ I_ did," Gil-galad said evenly.  
  
"Thy voice and another, two voices speaking as one." Tindómion's flesh burned now, and Glorfindel held the silver eyes as he asked softly,  
"Istelion, is thy father dead?"  
  
Silence came down in the chamber as the Fëanorion struggled with the question, closing his eyes, breathing deeply. At last he said in a mere whisper: "I do not feel it."  
  
"Very well. I trust thy bond with him, and there is naught we can do."  
  
Tindómion came to his feet, "Some-one captured him, tortured him..."  
  
"It boots nothing to imagine what may have happened, my friend."  
  
"I _know_ what happened! I felt it, as Gil felt it when Fingon died!" He threw himself back on the settle, dropped his head in his hands.  
  
"Yes, as I have told thee, as Baesel and Borin will attest, they were there." Gil-galad reached out, laid his fingers on Tindómion's back; it wracked with tremors like a nervous horse. "I felt my father's death." His face – Fingon's face – was stark and Glorfindel touched it, offering silent comfort where there was none to give. Tindómion raised his head, shook back the damp bronze mane. "Ah, Gil."  
  
"But thou dost feel Maglor lives, the the torment ceased." Glorfindel gripped both their shoulders. "Let us hold to that."  
  
Tindómion nodded once, as if he knew there was nothing else that could be done and Glorfindel continued: "I was speaking of thy grandsire. So much of it began with him."  
  
"And is not ended yet." Gil-galad returned to his seat.  
  
"I think it will never end," Fëanor's grandson said quietly.~  
  
  
  
~~~ 

~~~


	42. ~ The Fire Before The Sun And Moon ~

 

  
~ "I had to make it plain to Fëanor that I would not turn aside from Turgon. We had long been friends, through my brother." Glorfindel tipped back his head for a moment. "Such a message had to come from me, no written letter could convey it." He smiled faintly, ironically. "The truth was I had been burned and yet I craved more. Fëanor had awoken me."

"I know that feeling well." Gil-galad's face bright and fierce as a hunting falcon's.

  
~~~

  
Fëanor was a force in the beautiful chamber, which though spacious, seemed to confine him, become a cage for the wildness which blazed against its marble bars.

"Thy loyalty is commendable." The mildness of his voice was an almost violent contrast to the brilliance of his eyes. "Tell me, hast thou never thought of leaving this land, where we are subject to the Laws of the Valar, to live in a place where we may make our own and where thou needst not hide thy proclivities, be made to feel ashamed of them?"

"The Outer Lands?"

"Endor, yes." Fëanor moved closer.

"Is that not...ungrateful?" Glorfindel asked. "The Valar brought us here to protect us. many of the Unbegotten speak of the the dread shapes of shadow that stalked us in Cuiviénen."

"Protect us? Or control us?"

Glorfindel tensed as a hand settled on his shoulder. He stood taut as Fëanor walked behind him, surrounded by a rich scent wherein he recognized sandalwood, rosewood; the odors of seduction.

"We learned from them, yes and we made Valinor glorious. Yet they would have us be as children, questioning nothing, learning only what they teach, bound by laws which take no account of our _humanity._ Thou didst fear to break those laws, and thou art not alone. My own eldest son conceals his love for Fingon."

So he knew. Glorfindel was not surprised. Fëanor was impossible to deceive; his eyes drew secrets from the very heart.

"The Valar have turned their back upon Endor, and the Elves who dwell there. But our people were born there, we were born for the Earth, not this prison of Light." His fingers tightened, his body was flush with Glorfindel's. It seemed to burn through his clothes, into his flesh, set his heart afire. "Where _I_ rule no sanctimonious Law with keep us from those we desire."

"So thou wouldst leave Aman?" Glorfindel heard his voice emerge brushed to roughness.

"When the time is ripe. Thou hast been a friend to Maedhros, to Fingon, understanding them when others would have condemned them. Wilt thou not follow me, Golden One?"

The breath that touched his ear was sweet and warm. Under the heavy fall of his hair, the flesh on the back of his neck pricked as if at an awareness of danger.  
"I am Turgon's friend, his companion. If his father follows thee, so will the sons. I would suggest, my lord, that thou dost heal the...rift between thyself and Fingolfin and Finarfin and then thou wilt be assured we will _ all _ follow thee."

He heard laughter, glanced around in surprise. Fëanor's eyes danced with a rare mirth.  
"Fingolfin will follow me," he murmured.

"But..thine enmity is well known." Glorfindel was bewildered by the assuredness in the words. They held no arrogance, simply stated a fact. And yet...he remembered the crackling tension between the two princes as he lay lapped in burning, hardly aware of anything but pain, wonder, the hot aftermath of rapture.

The turn of his head brought him so close to Fëanor that their lips all but brushed.

"So many think they know so much. And _ I _ know that thou didst not come here simply to tell me thou wilt not follow me."

"I would follow thee from Aman but I will not turn from Turgon – or from Ecthelion," Glorfindel said huskily. "I wanted thee to know that, and I had to tell thee _myself._ It would be craven to commit my words to a letter."

"Oh, I know thou art no craven, cutting thyself off from thy father – few would have done that. But thou hast merely dreamed. I woke thee." The diamond eyes flashed, then the long lashes dropped over them. "I hear thy words."

Wrong footed, Glorfindel said impulsively: "Why me?" and cursed himself inwardly. Yet he did not move, could not. Nothing prevented him from walking to the door save the sheer force of Fëanor's sensuality. He was hard under his breeches, had been since he entered this room.

"Why not thee, Golden One? Thou were a star hidden by mist. But I have shown thee how to _burn!_" The whispered words patterned his throat, broke in fragments against his hearing as teeth closed over the delicate point of his ear. A sound keened from him which held nothing but incomprehensible need.

Fëanor became everything. He was the heart of the flame, the unleashed spirit of the Elves, he was the destroyer of peace. _Spirit of Fire._ He took Glorfindel through a locked doorway to what lay in his uncharted soul. He forced him to the outermost limits of pleasure, where ecstasy and pain became indivisible. He was consumed again, burned to ash again, his innocence scorched from him. For he had been innocent, wholesome as new bread. He had truly known nothing.

All of him throbbed, _ached,_ smaller waves of pleasure following the master-wave that had deluged him, drenched his very blood.

"We cannot remain here." The throaty murmur against his lips dragged a moan from him. He felt lightheaded, more weary than the longest bout of sparring had ever brought him to.

"A golden lion, truly." Fëanor sat back on his heels. The chamber was darkened by heavy drapes pulled across the windows and his eyes gleamed from within, they cast winking prisms of light across Glorfindel's flesh as they traced over him.

_ I am betraying Ecthelion...and with Fëanor...!_ The thought wrung another groan from him. He sat up, shook his head; damp coils of hair clung to his back and arms.

"Thou hast never had him."

Glorfindel eyes rose. He shivered. Never before had he felt so truly alive.

"It is against the Laws."

Fëanor laughed. "They are not _ my _ laws. Why should I heed them? How can something which feels thus be wrong?"

Glorfindel swung himself to his feet, his long thighs were trembling, a sheet of pain lit his face. He bit back a gasp.

"It will ease, in time." Fingers trailed down his back. "Dost thou regret it? Be truthful and what harm is there in sharing pleasure with another. I do not ask for love."

Fëanor gleamed in the dimness, a diamond lamp lit by a silver torch. Glorfindel's mouth dried as he re-lived again the pain, the pleasure, his feral enjoyment of it. He had been sure could endure no more and then _begged_ for more, his cries seemed to still echo back from the walls.  
The laugh flared his desire alight again.

"I serve Turgon. I keep my word." He set his jaw.

"Turgon will follow his father. In the end, thou wilt _all_ follow me."

A frisson struck from Glorfindel's head to his heels.  
_ Yes. I think we will. _

  
~~~

  
"I did not love him, but I could not stay away from him."

Gil-galad's eyes met Tindómion's like the kiss of swords for an instant.

"I loved Ecthelion but I had accepted that the first flush of desire had faded. It was what happened to all Elves: we burned in youth and then our needs were spent. Spouses became friends, and did not share a bed; our interests turned to other things, which apparently engaged our interest as loving did not." Glorfindel affected not to notice the overwhelming tension between the two. They had to resolve this thing one way or another.  
"But Fëanor's fire never grew dim. I questioned how many others burned and were unsated. How many _believed _ that their lusts faded, and thus they did?"

  
~~~

  
He lay back on the bed, silvery light glossed the room, and then was intruded upon by something far wilder. He felt Fëanor's presence before he saw him, and his pulse leapt.

"Thou art waiting for me?"

"No, my lord." It happened again, the spark, the _ hunger._ "Why art thou here?"

"I was in thy mind, Golden One. And thou wert in mine." The smile promised feral delight.

As they came together the voice of Ecthelion said from the door.  
" I do not believe this. _ This _ is why thou hast been so strange of late?"

His hand rested on the doorjamb, the pale grey eyes were blank with shock, and then Ecthelion leapt, striking out. Fëanor was swifter, he caught the fist and wrenched, slamming Ecthelion onto the bed face down, setting one knee in the small of his back.

"No!" Glorfindel shouted.

"I will not hurt him. Show him. Show him what thou hast learned."

"Release me!" Ecthelion snarled, his face livid under the webs of black hair. "Release me, Fëanor, I swear I will denounce thee to the High King !"

"Dost think anything I do would surprise my father?"

The sound of Ecthelion's breathing was harsh.  
"I will go to the Mahanaxar and Manwë if either of thee dare touch me," he ground out.

"And say what? That thou wert raped?"

Glorfindel caught Fëanor's shoulder. "No."

"I have told thee I will not touch him, from me it would be rape indeed would it not? But from thee? " One hand moved, ripped down the silk shirt, showing Ecthelion's wide shoulders.

"Could I rape thee, Ecthelion?" Desire tightened to a pitch that almost blinded Glorfindel.

"Thou wouldst not." Something in his tone spoke of not only trust but scorn. Glorfindel jerked down Ecthelion's breeches; his boots hit the floor and then a hand coated in oil closed over his erection. The touch brought his heart into his throat. He forced himself into Ecthelion, heard the cry of pain of pain, the protests which melted into shattered groans as he struck the gland which flared pleasure through his unwilling lover.

"Glorfindel!" Ecthelion's fingers clenched on the sheets. "No!" Yet he writhed and pushed back, his gasps striving, desperate. There was a madness in it, and as Glorfindel thrust more fiercely he felt his own hips caught and he was impaled and then...then it happened again, the firestorm that smashed away the cool white mist of Valinor.

He emerged into consciousness. The room came into focuss, now warm and golden. Ecthelion lay motionless, swathes of hair black against the whiteness of his skin. Glorfindel watched him, cocooned in deep peace for a moment before what he had done struck him and he reached out.

Ecthelion's hand snapped up and caught his wrist.

"What art thou?" he breathed. "What did he do to thee?"

"He woke me." Glorfindel said. "He showed me what we should be, were it not for the laws of the Valar."

Ecthelion's blow rang through the room. They stared at one another like enemies, then Ecthelion lowered himself, demanding again: "What did he do to thee?"

"Was it not what we wanted? Is it not _magnificent?_"

The pale gray eyes flicked open, a new flame leaped in their depths.

"Yes," Ecthelion said. "Yes. It is."

  
~~~

  
"The strangest thing of all was that we did not speak of it after. We were lovers at times, and friends always, yet Fëanor lay between us."

"But the both of thee burned," Gil-galad whispered.

"Yes, we burned. For a little while, before fire and death consumed us."

"Is it not better to have had that, and lose it than never to have known it?"

"I cannot speak for any-one but myself." Glorfindel looked at him. "But to feel thus, if only for a heartbeat?" His face held the afterglow. "Yes, I would grasp what I had with both hands. When Fëanor was exiled to Formenos – " He paused. "Something passed away. The light of the Trees still shone, but at times it seemed as if it were sealed under a sky like a lid, the light was reflected back as from dull metal. I think it was then I knew that the Trees illuminated, but it was not the same light as that which burned within us. All the splendor of Tirion was cold and empty without the Flame. And I was not the only one who felt it."

"Even when the flame drives one to wrongdoing?" Tindómion asked bleakly. "Is it still to be desired?"

"Wrongdoing?" Gil-galad flashed back. "In whose eyes? Thine?"

"In the Valars eyes."

"Then it is their laws which are wrong, we are not _ their _ children to be punished for breaking laws _ they _ laid down !"

Both had risen to their feet.

"I _agree._" Tindómion's voice sounded choked, as if his words were forced through a wall of anger. "And yet, there is no appeal."

"We make those choices, Istelion," Glorfindel said. "I can only hope there will be an appeal, at the end, for if I were to love, and truly, I would not heed the Valar."

"And thy lover?" Gil-galad asked. Glorfindel shot him a strange, intent glance.

"Perhaps I would give him no choice, seduce him, so that the blame would ever be on me. Some-one who did not know the Laws of the Eldar. The Moriquendi were never taught them, many of them are ignorant of them. It would not be his fault, but mine."

"What a pity," the king looked at Tindómion with anger and lust in equal measure. "That thou art not some Silvan Elf of the Greenwood, or Lórinand who knows no better than to simply love."

"Unfortunately," the Fëanorion's voice was taut with anguish. "I am not, and we do know...better."

Gil-galad dragged his gaze away from the tormenting silver eyes and said, "We are all heirs of Fëanor, it seems."

"The day that Fëanor was to come before Manwë, Tirion emptied and Valmar lay silent." Glorfindel spoke quietly, for this memory recalled sorrow, not passion. "We gathered on the slopes of Taniquetil and in Ilmarin to give thanks to Eru. We were to witness the forgiveness of Fëanor, and many hoped that Finwë would return and rule again."

"And thou wert one of those who wished to see Fëanor return?" the king asked.

"I will admit the thought of his return thrilled me."

  
~~~

  
Glorfindel glanced around at the flashing, brilliant assembly. Fingolfin was with his sons. Anairë was with Nerdanel and Indis. All of them looked as if each heartbeat of time were drawing them closer to something momentous.

Tension gathered like smoke, and Glorfindel felt his muscles brace. From somewhere a wind sighed through the vast hall, rippling gleaming hair. The voices faded into a silence which spread as Fëanor appeared in the great doorway. For a moment he stopped, gathering all eyes. His clothing was plain; he might have come from his smithy, or from hunting. He wore no jewel, though many had hoped to see the Silmarilli, as they had also hoped to see Finwë. But Fëanor was alone and he needed no adornment; his eyes blazed diamond as he moved to the throne of Manwë. Fingolfin stepped forth.

_ Surely I cannot be the only one who sees what lies between them? _ Glorfindel thought.

A breath of relief moved across the hall as the brothers clasped wrists and embraced. Glorfindel saw some of the tension leave Fingon's wide shoulders and he moved as if he would leave then and there, to ride to Formenos, and Maedhros. Glorfindel would have smiled but as he looked back at Fëanor he saw his eyes shining like the Silmarilli themselves and his heart rose in his throat...

He felt it then. Heads turned as cries from without the Halls. Glorfindel raced out onto the lawns of Ilmarin and looked down over Aman.

It was a sight none ever forgot. Darkness was advancing like black wave, and Glorfindel knew in sudden horror that the Light of the Trees was gone. It was as if this unknown darkness which had been crouching beyond it for many years now rushed in, covering everything.

_Melkor...!_

It was not his own thought, but Fëanor's mental cry of rage. As the gloom poured in, isolating the Holy Mountain, his eyes shone against it.

Then, through the seething Eldar, he heard a voice he knew crying out. It was Maedhros, red hair disheveled, blood upon his clothes, his eyes burning.  
"Father!" he said, and Fëanor caught him. Maedhros' voice brought another, and more terrible silence as he told that Finwë had been slain and Formenos sacked. The Silmarilli were gone. Melkor had come and with him, a great darkness. And Melkor had slain Finwë.

  
~~~

  
"Finwë was greatly loved, we could not believe he was dead. And Fëanor adored his father. People seemed to forget, after the oath, that he was mad with grief. But he returned to Tirion, we heard his voice ring out against the marble walls and towers, bidding all come to the high court of the King. And thou knowest what happened then."

  
~~~

  
Fëanor's great sword flamed red as blood, and caught an answering gleam from his eyes as he raised it in the torchlight. And there he swore an oath so terrible that many quailed, naming Eru Himself and Manwë and Varda in witness, to pursue with hatred undying any Elf or Man, Demon, Vala or creature yet unknown and unborn, who would take and hold a Silmaril.

It was an oath which could not be broken save by the death of the one who swore it, and yet the swords of Fëanor's sons flashed as they raised them to touch his. They took the selfsame oath, each one.

  
~~~

  
"Thus it was. Thus it is remembered. But few know that although Fingolfin spoke against the oath, he would have followed his brother to the Hells themselves. Yet Fëanor did not forgive his dissent, did not recognize the love which lay at its root. Fingolfin would not have seen his half-brother damned. And in truth, we _all_ would have followed him then, his words in our blood like fire."

_** "Say this to Manwë Sulimo, High King of Arda: If Fëanor cannot overthrow Morgoth, at least he delays not to assail him and sits not idle in grief. And it may be that Eru has set in me a fire greater than thou knowest...!" **_

"And that was true."

  
~~~

  
The wind began to gust. A bell clanged somewhere in warning, there was the scudding sound as the ships nudged against the white quays, befouled by the blood of the slain.

"Load the horses! We will need them, load thy belongings and thy people!" Fëanor's voice rang out. Lightning forked across the dark sky as Uinen wept for her mariners. The sea began to rise, lifting the beautiful Swan-ships. Tall and proud they were, the most graceful and seaworthy vessels ever built. Ramps thudded down on the wharf and the sound of hooves echoed hollowly on them. Elves followed carrying chests, weapons. Some of the Noldor, in happier times had sailed with the Teleri and learned their art, and now the great banks of oars rose and dipped as the ships backed from the Swan-haven.

Looking back, Glorfindel saw a master-wave climb the white harbor walls and sweep away the pools of blood. He still felt the spray and splash of it over his hands, his face. How easy it had been for him to take lives...he shuddered, did not know that he was in shock.  
_ Blood, a body holds so much...!_

It was a dreadful journey. Although the Valar would not permit Ossë or Uinen to hinder the flight of the Noldor, the ocean raged, and more than a few of the lovely ships went down, Elves and horses screaming, to the black depths. But at last the storm calmed and all was dark save for the few stars peering cautiously through the cloud wrack. They were come to Araman, the northern confines of Aman, cold mountains which plunged to a narrow strip of coast.

The cold seeped through the rich garments, alien and numbing, and the Noldor gathered driftwood which had been washed up on the shore, wreckage from the lost ships. The fires were welcome, but would not last forever and the further north they went the more bitter the chill. In the distance they could hear the boom and crack of the great ice-floes of the Helcaraxë.

Glorfindel heard voices raised in argument. The Noldor were still suffering the shock of the battle at Alqualondë, the Doom which had been laid upon them. He clenched his hand about a steaming goblet of hot wine and it echoed in his mind.

** "_ Tears unnumbered shall ye shed and the Valar will fence Valinor against you and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West to the Uttermost East and upon all that will follow them shall it be laid also...For Blood ye shall render blood and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in deaths shadow...slain ye may be and slain ye will be, by weapon and by torment and by grief." _

He remembered the sea-sound in the great silence until Fëanor's voice cried out like fire. A thrill had speared through him at the words.  
_** "We have sworn and not lightly. This Oath we shall keep!....Therefore I say that we will go on, and this doom I add: the deeds that we do shall be a matter of song until the last days of Arda!" _

It was then that Finarfin turned back, but no others. Fingolfin and his own children would go on. Their minds, loves and loyalties were set in stone.

_ Come with me, _ Fëanor had said, in the icy mists of Araman.

_ Swear to me. _

_ Follow me! _

  
~~~

  
"What if I had gone with Fëanor?" he wondered, as Gil-galad and Tindómion gazed at him in silence. "He did not love me, but he wanted me, and I, Eru help me, wanted him. Could I have influenced him, added my voice to Maedhros, had the ships sent back for Fingolfin and his host? And what might have come to pass had all the Noldor set foot on Endor under one mighty King?"

~


	43. ~ To The Ruin Of Kings ~

  
~ Tindómion heard the door click shut and felt the king behind him, but Gil-galad did not speak or quicken his stride to draw level. There were others passing in the hallways, and he imagined they must know what had happened by the risen blood in his face. He did not pause, did not go to his own chambers until the time came for him to change for the feast.

There were many eyes on him as entered the hall that night, for by now most knew of his the strange assault upon his mind and body. Some moved forward to greet him, Aeralagos and Vórimóro were among the first, with smiles and outstretched hands, and he was gladdened by their acceptance. It seemed he could show affection to all those he was fond of – all save the one he loved.

  
***

  
To be close and not to touch, to speak and leave everything unsaid, to show only a calm face, built a wall of tension between the high king and his closest companion. Behind it, Tindómion burned up, _lusted,_ whenever he saw Gil-galad. He said nothing, the king said nothing, and thus the silence became some strange edifice, invisible, solid as marble. Tindómion had expected something more after that glorious loving, but he was not the only one with pride.

Glorfindel said, impatiently, "Dost thou expect him to come to thee on his knees and beg thee? He will not. I would not."

Tindómion shook his head. No, that was not what he wanted. He wanted Gil-galad to master him. Let them burn and be damned. _But_ – and damn the Valars' laws to the Void ! – he knew he must resist, so that one day, when he was judged by Mandos, he could repent, not of his love, but of his actions, not so that he might be spared, but that Gil-galad would be. Tindómion knew he had tempted the king through the years, teased him by touch and look, daring him to come closer. He deserved no forgiveness, and did not want it.

He wore fierceness those days like a starving wolf, as he and Gil-galad danced a dance of frozen fire. Watching him, his eyes drawn to the king irresistibly, he held himself between two points of love and of desire, and both pulled at him.

_ I love thee and want thee, but I cannot bring thee down. It would be an act more grevious than kinslaying, and so I must withhold and sue for pardon when my time comes. _

It was news that came up from the south which shook him from his tormented inward focus, and brought a message from Gil-galad to come to his audience chamber.

Glorfindel was there, and other councilors who could be called in haste. They stood about three Men who wore travel stained clothes and armor, but were tall and proud even in their weariness, grey eyes bright and keen. Bidden to sit, they were holding goblets of hot wine, for the day was sunless with a keen northerly wind.

Gil-galad turned to Tindómion.  
"This is Lord Galadrahil, Istelion, his son, Golasgil and companion Hatholdir. They come from the army of Ar-Pharazôn."

The men had risen at his entrance.Tindómion bowed and gestured that they return to their seats.

"We deserted." Galadrahil's voice was worn rough by fatigue. He moistened his throat with wine and continued: "We landed at Umbar and the army was assembled. From that port we rode north, through a desert land, and saw in the distance great mountains, one range snow-peaked, the other on the east, dark and grim. We followed this range north through a pleasant, green land, until we came to the gate which bars Mordor. It is vast and watched by towers. I wondered what lay behind it, but none of us showed fear, for our army was mighty and Pharazôn commanded his heralds to call forth Sauron, called Gorthaur, and for him to come out."

A burning log fell with a spatter of sparks. No-one moved.

"He came," Galadrahil said. "The Dark Lord rode from his gates alone, all in black, upon a great horse. Noble and beautiful he looked, with pale hair, but I felt his power, what lay behind his eyes. I did not hear what words he spoke to the king, but he allowed the knights to surround him and the gate closed behind him. Ar-Pharazôn is taking him back to Númenor."

"As a prisoner?" Tindómion demanded. Glorfindel's dark brows drew together.

"He was to be a prisoner, lord, yes, but on the journey back to Umbar he was much with the king, in his pavilion, and began to ride beside him in the day. I know no more, save that at the last Sauron seemed less like a prisoner, more like a guest."

Glorfindel said, "Sauron can speak words of poisoned honey." He glanced at Tindómion, who nodded.

"You must understand, I was the King's man for many years. In our younger days we were lovers." The information was offered without embarrassment. "But later, I fell in love and wed, and had a child." Galadrahil looked up at Golasgil for a moment, and his son reached out to touch him in wordless affection. "We were happy, but Pharazôn was not. My wife died some years ago. I suspected poison, but if so, it was a subtle one and could not be proven. But I supported the King still, sent word of his doings secretly to the Faithful, and returned to his bed. I told him, as we traveled back south that he should not hearken to Sauron, that he was more dangerous than he seemed, and far more powerful. He struck me, told me that he was the king and that he would use Sauron to acquire more power, that I was jealous and hen-hearted." Galadrahil looked down into his wine-cup. "I know too many things of him, his appetites, his secrets. I fear for Númenor, and in truth I feared for myself and for my son, and for Hatholdir, whom I love. And so we slipped away. It was a harsh journey, but we are warriors and endured, hunting off the land. We sought to bring thee the news and perhaps to find a place here away from the cauldron of corruption our home has become."

"Thou art welcome here." Gil-galad clasped the man's wrist. "I know not what this news portends, but it bodes ill for Númenor and perhaps for us." He beckoned to one of the door wards. "Bring servants and have them escort these guests to rooms where they may bathe and rest."

The men rose and bowed. "We thank thee sire." Galadrahil bowed. "The friendship between our peoples has waned. We knew not what to expect."

"The Elves remember," Gil-galad said. "We remember that thou didst come to our aid in the Black Years."

~~~

"So, Sauron's shadow is lifted from Middle-earth and settles on Númenor," Glorfindel murmured, after the men had gone. "It seems the king seeks to use the power of Sauron for his own ends. I fear what this will bring."

"Thinks't thou think he would use the armies and fleet of Númenor to attack us?" Gil-galad asked. "For that is what I would do."

"Who can know the mind of Sauron? He sought to make one king his puppet." Glorfindel looked at the other. "And thou didst reject him, but a Man already so powerful and ambitious? I would advise, Gil, that while Sauron is gone, Lindon's army and defenses are doubled and redoubled."

The king nodded. "Yes, my friend, we must use this time. Istelion?"

"Command me, Sire." Tindómion inclined his head and received a wry glance.

"In this matter, if in none other, I will, my friend."

  
***

  
_ Take me,_

_ Yes!_

_ I need thee!_

_ I know,_

_He felt himself stretched, so shockingly, so painfully, that his hands ripped silk. He suffocated his cry in the pillows as he was opened, invaded, claimed by one who thrust until from somewhere, came the pleasure, blossoming outward through his nerves. His head felt hot, light, and he hardened and groaned.  
_Ai, Eru, more! _  
Again and again the deep invasion heightened both pain and pleasure. It was unbearable, glorious. Fingers worked his erection, he was assaulted by two sensations and writhed between them until they brought him to a release so intense that he cried out. _

Tindómion's eyes focused sharply. There was a surf roar of blood in ears and his heart pounded. His fingers were slicked with wetness and as he sat up, he still throbbed as if he had been truly possessed. He rose quickly and went to clean himself, not from disgust, but out of a real fear that one day he would walk in dream and thus expose both himself and the king. Then all would know that what was rumored had indeed come to pass.

They could not be lovers. They were not the wild Elves of the distant forests, blissfully ignorant and innocent in their passions. They both knew the consequences of their love and Tindómion was not willing that Gil-galad pay for their supposed sins.

There was silence; a silence which hardened with the years until that sheet of crystal froze solid between them. Through it they could speak, discuss anything but the thing locked in that barrier. All of Tindómion's hunger poured into that wall and behind it he lived as a lord, a knight-companion, a friend. To break through it was unthinkable, but he loathed the silence, the distance. He turned from it as often as he could, filling the days, the nights with his duties, and his thoughts rested on his father and what he had felt, the pain and horror so great he hoped his mind would break, yet it had not. And he thought, with fury, _ How dare any-one lay hand on my father! _ If any-one caused Maglor pain, it should be Tindómion. But though he searched, took companies of warriors out to the coasts, to train and to seek out the bays which might harbor ships coming from Númenor, he sensed nothing, did not even dream. He felt Maglor's soul, knew he lived, but nothing more.

Lindon prospered in the years Sauron sojourned in Númenor. Reports from the east, which came at times from the Elves of Lórinand or the Greenwood, told that orcs of Mordor hunted beyond its gates, and that clans of them infested the Grey Mountains and the Towers of Mist, but without a leader of greater will and power, they often fought among themselves and were no great threat.

It was as Glorfindel had said, a shadow had been removed from Middle-earth. In its absence, the sun shone brighter, the years were golden and long and far too brief. Lords of Lindon settled the wild and beautiful lands of Eriador and their great villas shone like carven pearls. But under the gloss of peace was the clash of arms, hammers in forges, crisp orders, the drum of fleet hooves upon the green earth as Gil-galad's standing army swelled its ranks.

Two thousand warriors and their households now owned Tindómion as their lord and he loved their loyalty both to himself and their king. They likewise flocked to Glorfindel, but he said that the House of the Golden Flower had ended in Gondolin and he would not create another. He was Lieutenant of Gil-galad, as was Tindómion, and Elrond the herald.

The rich, glittering years wore at Tindómion, shadowed his hours of rest and sleep. Only sometimes did an unguarded look escape him, and his eyes would declare the words he would not utter.  
_ I love thee, I need thee._  
And in those moments time itself would fade as their souls touched, and a stillness would come upon the Fëanorion, an anodyne which calmed him, eased the pressure within his soul.

~~~

The storm built far in the west.

"What dost thou feel? " Tindómion asked.  
Glorfindel had been strangely withdrawn for the past days, and now he stood upon the battlements which faced west and watched the evening. The wind had risen, it gusted fitfully against their faces, bringing the scent of the sea.

"Fetch the king." Glorfindel's hands were pressed hard on the marble. "Now!" His voice was strained. Tindómion flung around and ran.

Gil-galad was sitting with one of his scribes in his private garden and both looked up as they were interrupted. The king came to his feet as Tindómion said: "Glorfindel asks thee to come."

"What is it?"

"Something...I know not."

They ran together up the wide steps to the battlements, gathering a wake of curious followers as they came to where Glorfindel still stood gazing into the west. When the King spoke his name, he turned.  
"Something comes."

The sky was darkening over the sea, clouds racing in, grey as pewter against the blue, and as they came on, the watching Elves saw that the clouds were shaped like mighty eagles, in whose outstretched wings spears of lightning danced. They came on, wave after wave out of the west, blanketing the sun.

Voices were calling out, but the three stood silent, eyes gleaming in the dimness.

"The Eagles of Manwë," Glorfindel murmured. "Portents sent from Valinor."

"What does it mean?" Gil-galad asked, equally quiet.

"I know not, but something comes."

"To Middle-earth?"

"I think not, Gil. But the wrath of the Valar is roused and if we have not roused it, then who but Sauron, and Númenor?"

It was dark as nightfall now. The air cracked with thunder under the vast wings of the storm. Rain began to fall in a hard, sharp torrent.

They moved without speaking, went to the king's chambers, where lamps had been uncovered against the gloom, and drank hot wine as the rain streamed down the glazed windows.

"There is a darkness over the Land of the Star," Glorfindel murmured. "The light has gone out."

"Then we must be prepared," Gil-galad said, and looked at Tindómion.

"We are," he replied. "We are prepared, for whatever may come."

They expected invasion, planned for it, for messages to come from the coastal fortresses of a great fleet on the horizon. These were not the days when Númenor had come in aid to drive back Sauron's forces from Eregion. Sauron had been taken to Númenor itself, and only the most arrogant or powerful could have believed that they could chain or tame a Maia.

It did not come to pass, but a sense of building danger grew in the hearts of the Elves, and then came the day when the insects ceased their buzzing, the birds fell silent, and Arda held it's breath.

Tindómion was walking back to the palace with Gil-galad and Glorfindel when the latter came to a dead halt.

There was utter silence, and then a shock wave rippled through the earth. They felt it through their feet, heard the scream and thud of panicking horses. It was a sensation, a sound, a distant, deep booming, which vibrated through the bones. The western sky began to darken, birds rose, shrieking, from the trees.

The quakes came like waves running through the earth, so that wind-chimes clanged in tintinnabulations of discordant music. They turned and saw the western horizon ink black. Clouds were piling into the clear sky as if hurled upward from some gigantic cauldron.

"Blessed Eru," Glorfindel whispered.

"What in the Hells is happening?" Gil-galad demanded.

"An ending..."

~~~

The risen sea funneled through the narrow straits of the Gulf of Lhûn and flung the white ships from their moorings, flooding the lower town. Some were lost, but Círdan was wise and foresaw what such a disaster out in the ocean would bring to the coasts. He ordered the people of Mithlond to leave their homes and sent messages to Harlond and Forlond. And after, when the rain ceased and the sea withdrew, the Elves worked to clear the damage.

  
***

  
They knew not what had happened, not until the great ships with ragged sails limped into the Gulf of Lhûn bearing those men of Númenor who had survived. Their lord was Elendil, and Gil-galad and Círdan greeted them, bade them rest and listened, appalled, to their tale.

Sauron had risen to a position of great power under Ar-Pharazôn. They had cut down Nimloth, the white Tree, built a temple where Sauron sat and where human sacrifices were offered to Melkor. Those who spoke against it were often arrested as traitors and put to death, but Elendil was still powerful and Lord of Andúnië, and he withdrew there with his family and followers.

When he told of the Great Armament which had sailed to make war upon the Valar and Aman, the Elves who listened were frozen into disbelieving silence.

"The sense of disaster was as thick in the air as sea mist," Elendil said, wetting his mouth with wine. "And we know not what happened, but we saw. The ocean shook and mountains of water heaved into the sky. Númenor is no more." And he wept then, unashamed, for he had loved his land.

"Once, Númenor aided us in a time of great need, Lord Elendil," Gil-galad said, his voice subdued with the magnitude of the destruction, with empathy for the men. "Now let us return the gift to thee. Beyond Lindon is a land wide and beautiful, where thee and thy people may settle and dwell. We know it well, and when you have rested from your long labors we will escort thee, and thou may see it."

"It was a loss to our land when the Eldar came there no more." Elendil rose and bowed. "Thou hast ever my friendship, King Gil-galad." He paused. "I will accept thy generosity, yet I fear for my sons', Isildur and Anarion. Their ships were driven south, and the storm was terrible. We were as leaves upon the waters."

"We are repairing our ships." Círdan spoke up. "I will seek for any sign of them. There are harbors and inlets from here to the south where they may have found shelter. Thou didst come to land and thy ships are fine and seaworthy. It is likely thy sons have found shelter."

  
***

  
Thus was a friendship forged between Elendil and the Elves of Lindon, and in time Círdan discovered that his sons had indeed found safe landfall, but much father south, sailing up the river delta of the Anduin in the Bay of Belfalas. The Elves of Edhellond had seen the storm-bruised vessels far out at sea, and sent their own vessels to lead them to shelter up the Great River.

From the lost land, Elendil had brought a seedling of Nimloth, and seven _Palantiri_ called the Seeing Stones, which had been gifted to the Númenoreans by the Elves of Tol Eresseä. But they had not made them; they had been the work of Fëanor long ago, and when Tindómion first saw the dark sphere which Gil-galad set in the tower Elostirion, where Elendil might come and look to the West, he felt grief in his heart for what had been lost.

"Wouldst thou look in it, Istelion?" the king asked. Tindómion shook his head.

"I need not. I would see nothing that I have not already seen." He looked up. "Wouldst thou?"

"I need it not, not to see the beloved dead."

The tower soared up around them, white and pure and Gil-galad's eyes held ancient grief and then he said: "Although at times I wish that I could see into the heart and soul of my dearest companion."

"There is nothing hidden from thee, Sire."

"And stop titling me when we are alone!" Sudden anger banished sadness. "In the company of our friends it is Gil, when we are alone – so rarely ! – it is _ Sire,_ or _my Lord._" He raised a hand. "No, say nothing, I expect nothing else from thee now save silence." He turned to the stairwell and Tindómion, watching the straight back, the glassy fall of the hair, the movements which were so familiar, so loved, said sharply: "Gil. My star."

The king whipped around and his fist caught Tindómion on the jaw. He grabbed the wide shoulders and slammed the Fëanorion against the wall.  
" Do not call me that! That is an endearment a lover would use, and thou wilt never be that again!"

The silver eyes were burning like molten lead, and Gil-galad wanted him to snap, to allow the fire he saw revealed there to spill over, meld with his, here in this quiet, serene tower in the green hills. For breathless moments he thought that it would, that he had shattered the barrier between them and once it had dissolved in the fire there would be nothing but they two and what they could be together.

"No." The word came soft. "I cannot be."

The king felt a flash of white rage burn through him, but his words came out as stabs of ice.  
"Thou hast proved thy worth to me an hundred times, Tindómion. Thou art necessary to this realm and to me, but we are no longer friends, dost thou understand? _We cannot be friends!_ Thou art still my companion, my lieutenant, and Lindon needs thee, but this foolish game ends now! Thou art my companion and I am thy king, nothing more."

And Tindómion's face showed a violent blaze of the same anger, before he said, deep and rough as velvet, "I understand, _Sire._"

Gil-galad's eyes glowed in the infalling light from the high-set windows and then he turned and strode away, down the steps.

Tindómion waited, as one waits for a dream to end. Inside the chamber, the Palantir glowered like a raging heart. He threw himself at the round table in which the stone was set and stared hotly into it. The tower enclosed him in silence, and the tide of his wrath and will took his sight beyond Middle-earth. The bent seas rushed away under it and he saw, clear and beautiful, a green land, a tower of silver-white. Tol Eresseä. Why? Was nothing that Fëanor had fashioned to be remembered in Valinor itself? He thought of Glorfindel's words, that Tirion was like a hearth when the fire had gone out, and he snarled into the Palantir, as if he could reach to the Valar who sat in judgment on Taniquetil: "We are not _thy_ children to order, but thou hast succeeded, for _I_ have no right to condemn the one I love! Eru gave us the souls to love but thou wouldst call it wrong. _ And I damn thee for it._"

  
***

  
The chasm opened. New lines were drawn and these had no blurred edges, were precisely constructed. Tindómion's position did not change, but there were no more quiet times playing to Gil-galad in his chambers. If they hawked or hunted, which became rare, it was not alone but with others. They were a king and a knight only, their discussions revolved around matters of the army, the realm, nothing else.  
At times, Tindómion felt the madness swell in him, wrestled with it before it burned holes in his sanity and drove him to do something heinous, or flee away and wander, as his father did. But the reports that began to come in from the east focused the attention of all.

Perhaps the Men who settled Arnor and Gondor believed that Sauron had perished when Númenor was destroyed, but they did not forget him, and in the years following their arrival they began to build mighty cities and fortresses. The chiefest city of Arnor was Annúminas, on the shores of Lake Nenuial, whose walls gleamed amber in the sunsets, but in Gondor they raised towers of Guard: Minas Anor below Mindolluin, and Minas Ithil on the very borders of the Mountains of Shadow. Their greatest city was Osgiliath upon Anduin and here, under the Dome of Stars was kept kept the greatest of the Palantiri of the kingdom. By those in Gondor and Arnor, the men of lost Númenor might converse with one another.

But it was news carried south from the Greenwood which brought the first intimations of the growing threat. The Elves there had seen companies of orcs from the mountains passing east and south in great numbers, and some had been followed secretly.

They were heading for Mordor.

  
***

  
The Dark Lord had returned to the Black Land and began to grow in power and sent out armies to harry Gondor and the hated Men of Westernessë.  
In 3429, a force attacked Ithilien and Minas Ithil, and forced Isildur to retreat to Osgiliath, which was defended by Anarion. He turned the battle back, and drove Mordor's forces north. Isildur fled to Annúminas and his father and Elendil called for a great council to be held, for it must be assumed that behind the Morannon, Sauron's forces were vast and that the men of the east and south were still under his sway.

The meeting was a grave one. Elrond came from Imladris, Galadriel was there to lend her wisdom, and Glorfindel and Tindómion attended as Lieutenants of the High King. Greenwood the Great and Lórinand also sent representatives: Thranduil, son of Oropher, and Amroth, son of Amdir.

"We cannot wait for him to move," Gil-galad said at last, after the reports and speculations had been aired. "He grows ever stronger, and it is clear that he means to harry and overcome, if he can, both of our peoples." He turned to Elendil who nodded.

"I was sure he would not survive the destruction of Númenor." Isildur struck the arms of his chair.

"His physical form would have suffered," Glorfindel said. "But he is Maia, and can re-make it, in time, and his will and power would remain."

"In Eregion, Sauron came to us." Gil-galad rose. "He must not be permitted to put us on the defensive again, driving us back as he did before. We must make alliance lord Elendil, all the free peoples of Middle-earth and take war _ to _ him, to the gates of the Black Land itself – and beyond."

Even as he spoke the words, as voices echoed his in agreement, and Elves and Men came to their feet, Gil-galad remembered his dream in Hithlum, in another Age, a dream which still, at whiles, sprang at him out of sleep: a dark tower, a land of red sky and blowing ash...

He would die in Mordor.

  
***

  
In his private chambers, Gil-galad looked up at the two who had witnessed his last orders. He pressed his seal into the wax and said: "Both of thee are wise, and I know there are some reservations in thee, but if thou, Elrond, will not take the kingship after I am gone, I _must_ leave an heir."

"I tell thee this, Gil, it would be more than difficult for him, with his blood and what lies between thee." Elrond came to his feet and reached out to his king, taking a deep breath. "Do not speak of thy death as if it is written."

" I have known it a long time, Elrond," Gil-galad said. "It is part of the blood I share, the doom I bear. Thou hast foresight also, my friend."

Elrond bent his head, Círdan said nothing, eyes deep and compassionate in the lamplight, one who had seen so much and knew that sometimes there is no comfort one can give.

"He will not want it, if he lives past this war, not if thou art gone."

The king shook his head. "I no longer know his feelings, and he knows his duty. He will live. I have seen him beside me at the last."

Elrond looked up sharply, his face stark and Gil-galad clasped his wrist.  
"I charge thee, say nothing to him, to any-one."

"Sire..."

"Nothing!" It was an order, and Elrond stared into the silver-blue eyes and acquiesced.  
"Nothing, Sire."

  
***

  
The armies of Gil-galad and Elendil converged upon Imladris where Elendil, Isildur and their lords left their wives and then crossed the Towers of Mist, coming down into the vales of Anduin where a great stone bridge had been built over the river. They were joined by the warriors of Oropher and Amdir, although Oropher did not wish to place his people under the command of the _ Golodh_ High King, for he remembered Doriath. The woodland folk were swift and lithe, but lightly armed, and their leather armor, skillfully fashioned though it was, would not stop the black arrows of the great orcs, or their serrated blades. When Gil-galad said that they should advance behind the Elves of Lindon, who wore full steel panoply, Oropher's eyes blazed and he left the high king's tent in wrath saying, "We do not hide behind the _Golodhrim_ in war!"

The great gates of the Morannon came into view, flanked by two towers, tall and black against the red glow of the sky. Sauron was aware of them and his wrath was aroused, even as the armies drew up into their lines the sound of great horns went up in challenge and the massive gates swung open.

The armies of the Alliance were as a glitter of stars, long pennons cast out by the wind which blew sharp from the east. No greater force had been seen since the War of Wrath, and their eyes were brilliant as they watched the orcs pour forth like a black flood, the banner of the red eye borne aloft by one hulking troll.

Gil-galad dismounted his stallion in one fluid motion and without pausing, ran a few steps, lofting _Aeglos_ and throwing. The spear burned a silver arc through the air and struck the troll in the throat. It went down, the Red Eye with it. There was a roar of outrage from Mordor and cries of savage exaltation from the throats of the Men and Elves.

The silvery trumpets of the Alliance went up as the High King turned back and said: "Good my Lords, I need to retrieve my spear."

  
***

  
It was on the hard, stony plain called Dagorlad that Sauron's forces first clashed with the hosts of the Last Alliance, and there fell Oropher of the Greenwood and his warriors, valiant and afire to meet with the Enemy, their leather armor pierced by shafts from the horn bows of the orcs and eastern Men. They were the first, but not the last as the days ran on, winter and summer both blood-tinted, the dead buried, never forgotten. And slowly the Alliance began to push back their ancient enemy toward the gate, into Mordor.

The long struggle and attrition had wearied the souls of both the Elves and Men, but they sensed the moment when the enemy resistance finally snapped. It was one of the defining moments in a battle, when the will of one antagonist falters, when doubt becomes fear which spreads like contagion.

The silver horns blew fierce, urgent and Gil-galad, Glorfindel, Tindómion and Elrond pushed their horses to the forefront. Few were mounted now, for the beautiful war-stallions had been targets for arrows and spears since the battle began, and the Men had brought few horses with them from Númenor. Much of the fighting was now on foot, blade to blade, but the leaders of the Elven army rode, acting as beacons for their warriors to follow, and vanguard of the Alliance surged forward, knowing that they must give the enemy no time to close the gates behind them.

Straggling orcs and Men fell under arrows and sword, their bodies left in the dust as the Alliance crashed under the louring shadows of Narchost and Carchost, into the Black Land. The oppression of it was like a blow to the heart. They forced it to the back of their minds and drove the retreating army of Sauron across Udûn, the dark valley beyond the Morannon where the air stifled and the gloom was something palpable, whispering of torment and death.

Grim, relentless, battling both their minds and the enemy, the warriors pushed through Udûn, under its sunless walls, knowing if they paused they could only stand and die or retreat, and have to take this dreadful ground again. Far ahead the Ephel Duath and the Ered Lithui curved inward to a narrow pass, which was called _ Carach Angren, _ or _ Isenmouthe,_ the Iron Jaws, so named for they could hold and crush.

Gil-galad pressed onward, a spearhead of fury bent on challenging the Dark Lord, whose presence he could feel, a red rage against the walls of his mind. Along the front of his host indomitable, beautiful, were Glorfindel, golden hair a flame in the gloom, Elrond, bearing the silver-blue banner, Tindómion, who had fought as if the fire of his grandfather reached from the Void and flooded his veins. A small pain pricked Gil-galad's heart, and then he thought no more.

  
***

  
It was the only way they could have entered Mordor and not become trapped in Udûn, gathering their reserves of heart and body as if it were a foot-race which they could not afford to lose. As Carach Angren disgorged them from its black throat, they saw, far ahead, vomiting red, the great cone of Orodruin against a sky of scarlet and black. Further away yet, lights pricked out of a smoke made of iron and darkness which thrust itself up into heights veiled in fume.

Barad-dûr.

The forces of Mordor were in full retreat, called back to the Dark Tower or routed, none could say. Gil-galad turned, beckoned to Elrond and took the banner from his hand, the ancient insignia rippling under the glower of the sky as he raised it high. His throat was dry as the wind and he swallowed, tasting ash and blood.

All eyes were on him, one pair intent as a lamp, and he looked around met, briefly, a silver stare holding flame, arousal, love. Tindómion's face blazed like a furnace.

"_Sauron!_" Gil-galad's voice was a clarion ringing across the arid wastes. "_We are here! We come for thee! _"

And he drove the pennon down into the hard, grey-blowing earth in challenge. ~

 

~~~  



	44. ~ Bonds Of Fire, Chains Of Darkness ~

The command tents were pitched far behind the lines. The wounded were looked to first, and sheltered from the ash-fall. Orodruin had died down into sullen mutterings, and the banners of Gil-galad and Elendil hung motionless in the kiln-dry air as the wind died.

Tindómion came from one of the tents, blood on his hands and paused, using a little water to cleanse them. They already knew water would be scarce here, and the high king and Elendil had secured the supply lines from Ithilien. There was a bitter tang to the air, which caught at the throat and increased thirst, and Tindómion gratefully took a cup of wine offered to him, clearing the taste from his mouth.

"Istelion?" He turned at Glorfindel's voice. "The king would see us."

"I will come."

"Play to him later, when he rests."

Tindómion looked surprised. "Did he ask this?"

"No, but he needs it," Glorfindel responded. "He needs whatever thou canst give him." As they wove through the lines of tents and warriors resting about fires, he elected not to see the sharp, swift look Tindómion cast at him. "Many have been lost and this is not over. He feels each death deeply and the grimmest struggle is yet to come if we would take _that. _"

The distant tower felt like a pressure against their skin. Gemmed with lights which climbed its immense heights, it seemed part of Sauron's sentience, crouched there threateningly on a spur of the Ered Lithui. Both their heads lifted, denying its power and Tindómion said: "We will see it fall."  
Passion glinted in his eyes. Even in this place, the scent of blood about them, metal, ash, there was a look of wild arousal about him. To see Gil-galad in battle touched him viscerally – all that power and beauty unleashed. Glorfindel's hand on his arm brought his head about, and there was a faint smile on his face, but it faded as he said: "I understand the reasons for thy chastity. They are unselfish and birthed from love, but they are like to drive thee mad. Thine is not the blood to burn on nothing without it harming thee, Istelion. But whatever thy vows to thyself or him, the king needs all those who love him about him now."

"He has my love," Tindómion whispered. "Even if I cannot show it, thou knowest he has ever had my love!"

Elendil and Isildur rose to leave, only Glorfindel, Círdan, Elrond and Tindómion remained, finishing their wine, using a brief moment to relax. There would be few such times. Their forces were situated and prepared, Elven sentries watched for any movement, and fully a third of both armies remained beyond the Morannon, lest Sauron call on his allies out of the east. This had also allowed those younger Men and Elves who were overwhelmed by the darkness of Mordor to keep their honor, for this was a place which could wreak harm to the soul and drive one to despair and madness. But there was enough determination in the hearts of the Alliance to keep it at bay.

"Shall I play, sire?" Tindómion had brought his lap harp but made no move to reach for it until the king nodded.  
"Yes. Let us hear something other than the sounds of pain and battle."

The tune was a balm against war, against death and horror. It brought visions of the cool waters and oak-woods of Lindon, of the mist of bluebells under the spring trees, swift streams chuckling their way to the sea. After a time, the others left the king alone with the harpist, who played on as the night deepened. When he looked up, the silver-blue eyes were wide and brilliant on him.

"My thanks." Gil-galad did not say that those images were the last he would see of his realm, that he dwelt on them with love and regret, and yet more did he drink in the arrogant Fëanorion face, the silver eyes which burned with unsheathed longing. It was almost too late now. It would have been better for the both of them had they not been the victims of this hopeless love. But Gil-galad had never had any choice in the matter, perhaps Tindómion had not either. And so now, close to the end, he sought to fix that image in his mind, hold it there for eternity. Glorfindel said that even in death an Elf never forgot.

"Thou shouldst rest now, Sire." The golden voice was a little roughened by emotion.

"We should all rest, but I think we will have little chance until this is ended." Gil-galad rose and his hands went to the buckles of his cuirass. He felt Tindómion come to his side, unloosing them quickly, lifting the armor away.

"The enemy need to recoup their strength also, they are not without their own limits."

Gil-galad stood to allow Tindómion to take away his greaves, and stretched.

"I will clean this later. Now I will get water for thee, Sire."

He ducked out of the tent and the king drew the light under-tunic and leggings off. They felt gritty, were smudged with dirt, he felt it in his hair and unwound his braids.

_ I would have chosen a fairer place to end._ He closed his eyes for a moment, against the fear and the grief; fear that he would not see those he loved again, grief that soon he would never be able to touch Tindómion, turn to see him close by.

Tindómion returned with a young soldier bearing water-skins, who set them down and left with a bow. Gil-galad said: "The wounded have enough?"

"There are some streams in the mountains, running into this land. They are clean. Yes, Sire, there is enough."

"Then bathe thyself, also. The dust here sinks into the very pores of the skin."

Their eyes locked, then Gil-galad turned and walked through into the smaller bed-place, letting the flaps fall behind him. A pallet had been quickly made up, but the bulk of the gear had not yet come into Mordor. He heard Tindómion enter, and turned, performing the same service of unbuckling his gear. Soon they were both naked in the dim light.

Gil-galad no longer wished to speak, words would only snap the thread of fire; between them, silence had always been more eloquent, for good or ill. The time for speech had passed, perhaps it had ceased to matter the day Tindómion had walked into the Great Hall in Lindon, young, and defensive bristling with the expectation of rejection. In the moment their eyes met, all words had been rendered superfluous.

The King felt a flood of coolness down his back, a cloth cleansing his buttocks, his legs. He turned, and the water cascaded through his hair, over his face, his chest, cold against the heat of his erection. The touch was gentler now, as the cloth passed over bruises, some faded to shadows, some still dark and tender. Through beaded lashes, he saw Tindómion's lowered eyes, the intentness of his face, the way his scrolled lips parted a little.

Gil-galad stepped back, lifted a fresh skin and poured it. Like his own, the Fëanorion's white flesh was dappled with bruises, but there were none on his back. He had been at the forefront of the battles. His wounds had not been earned in retreat.

_ The only thing thou hast ever fled from is what is between us._

One dark blossom smudged the hip-bone. Gil-galad ran his fingers across it softly, felt the stomach muscles tighten, saw the response jutting rigid.

_ And that, my stubborn Fëanorion, is all I need to know. _  
He tilted the water-skin again and it drenched the bronze hair to black, painted silver lines down Tindómion's sinews. Slowly, Gil-galad drew his hands through the wet mass of hair, untangling the triple braids, massaging the scalp, the nape of the neck, the tense shoulders. He felt Tindómion's fingers in his own hair, on his own flesh, as their bodies closed the gap, fused together by heat and water.

There was silence save for the deepening of their breaths. Tindómion's head tipped back, his eyes closed. He raised one leg, slid it over Gil-galad's hip, and his hands locked on the king's buttocks, keeping them balanced as they pressed yet closer, both so hard that the friction scorched all thought from their minds. There was nothing beyond the walls of the tent, nothing but the two of them, hot flesh, _desire,_ love. They ground more frenziedly, melding body and soul, muscle against muscle, erections pulsing, iron-hard. Their mouths joined savagely. Gil-galad wanted to devour Tindómion, to be devoured, and carry part of the Fëanorion with him into eternity.

_ For I will never repent wanting thee,_ Nárya.

He bit his groan of release into Tindómion's shoulder, tasted the acrid waters of the Ephel Duath, mingled with the musk of sweat. Blood throbbed in his groin, dinned in his ears, and for long moments the rapture absorbed him. His body glowed, his spirit enlarged, existed in a place where it could meet its lover's without censure. He felt tremors ripple through the hard form which held him, hair falling cold against him. Lips traced, slowly now, down his neck, his breast, the hands still locked about his hips, and Gil-galad shuddered as he was cleaned by the lazy sweeps of the tongue.

He did not open his eyes until the soft drop of the inner flap told him that Tindómion had departed. He heard him dress, the clink of armor being lifted, and then silence. A long breath escaped him and he stretched out on the pallet, flooded with sudden marvelous languor that drew him into sleep.

  
***

  
"One of Sauron's captains?" Glorfindel asked the warrior walked at his side, dressed in the chestnut and yew-green of Mirkwood.

"So we believe. A tall Man. We took him to the high king."

Glorfindel approached the great pavilion to see the prisoner being lead out, and he stopped, staring. He was no Man, but one of the guards carried a full faced helm of blackened steel which would hide the face entirely when donned. Of course one would think him a Mortal if they could not see his face, for no Elf served the Dark. But this _was_ an Elf. A Noldo. He was all in black mail, which he wore lightly as if from long usage, and his step was a warrior's, power and grace commingled. Black hair was drawn up high and braided, swinging to his knees. His profile, which Glorfindel saw before he turned his head as if aware of regard, was carved like a statue's, a wide, clever brow, straight nose, high cheekbones, the mouth was hard, sensuously curled. When he turned, his eyes shone a deep violet.

_ I have seen him before..._

This black armored warrior had been fighting Elendil's forces, yet there had been an almost dilatory manner to his combat, as if he fought only to defend, not attack. His height and bearing, the way he moved had intrigued Glorfindel, but there was no time for the solving of such a riddle; he was one more warrior fighting in the ranks of Mordor.

The lustrous eyes gleamed with a hidden smile as they rested on him, and then the Elf was marched onward.

"A thrall," Gil-galad told him as he entered the tent. "He is branded with the Red Eye, and bound to Sauron's mind. He advised us to let him go or chain him, that the Dark Lord sees all through him."

Glorfindel left the king and Tindómion alone. He had seen something change in them in the past days. It was in their eyes, the silent language of their bodies. The torment of denial was lessened, if not utterly assuaged.

The prisoner was in a guarded tent not far from Gil-galad's, sitting cross legged, bonds about his wrists. Why so little restraint? wondered Glorfindel, regarding the impassive face, the sleep-blank eyes. But even as he entered, alertness snapped back, the man came smoothly to his feet and said in a rich voice which carried a lilting accent: "Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower. I have heard of thee, of course." One corner of his mouth lifted and his eyes showed a teasing amusement, as he asked: "Now, what art thou seeing?"

What did he see, indeed? Glorfindel met the challenge, looked with more than his eyes, and felt as if he stared into an alien sun, exploding with red and black – memories of pain – _ power..._

"What art thou?" he demanded.

"I am nothing, Lord." The stranger replied, still smiling.*

  
***

  
_Bind me with steel, _ the prisoner had said, after enduring silent agony visited upon him by his master, and Glorfindel had done so, wondering how long Sauron had enslaved the warrior. Ages, in all likelihood and from youth, to forge such chains in his soul. Who was he?

"He loathes Sauron. It is a pity he can tell us naught," he said, days later, after a foray from Barad-dûr had been driven back.

"He _could_ tell us." Tindómion looked up from his examination of the king's armor. "Were we Sauron, we would not hesitate to rack information from him."

"We do not deal in such things, even at such a pass as this. He suffers enough. We have seen it. And he may not know a great deal."

"I did not say we _should_ torture him, that is indeed orc-work." the Fëanorion carefully placed the cuirass on it's stand. "Only that we do not know what Sauron purposes, what he does behind his walls, even the numbers of his army there."

"This will be a long siege. I remember the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad, there are always more of the enemy than one believes, Istelion." Glorfindel poured out wine. "Stay close to the king. Thou art sword brothers. Watch him."

"I always do." A faint color burned up on the high cheekbones, but Glorfindel affected not to notice. He nodded, and at that moment voices were heard outside and the king entered and all that he needed to know was naked in the silver eyes.

  
***

  
The prisoner spent most of his time in a deep withdrawal from the world. When Glorfindel saw him, he was invariably lost in thoughts so deep that he appeared to be sleeping. There was a stillness to him, a constant bracing against the attacks of pain which came without warning. But this day he was standing with his head tilted, eyes closed, as if listening to something far off. They opened as Glorfindel entered the tent. he smiled with lazy charm.

"Does he speak to thee?"

The smile only deepened.  
" His mind is not on me all the time, Golden One. He knows where I am, that I am securely held and may not escape." He raised his manacled wrists. Steel likewise bound his ankles, chains linking them to allow him to walk, but not run. Both seemed unnecessary; he had made no attempt to free himself, but he had said, "Sauron can influence my mind. It is better than I am bound, no? " And Glorfindel, remembering their first meeting, agreed.

"How is it that thou knowest Quenya?"

"I learned it long ago, many Elves have been captured over the Ages."

"Yes, I saw those in the gardens of Lórien, in Aman. I did not believe any Elf would survive long torment and enslavement, but would die rather." He watched the smile become ironic.

"Perhaps I do not have that choice."

"Why not?" Glorfindel asked. "Why thou? Or are there others?"

A rich laugh. "There is only one of me."

He spoke in riddles, answering nothing clearly, perhaps under a power stronger than he, or from fear of the pain Sauron might inflict on him. But as the siege went on, wearisome and slow, the death count rising, Glorfindel found himself visiting the prisoner more often, attempting to find a chink in the armor that had been forged over so long, parrying and thrusting with words.  
More than curiosity beckoned him. The man reminded him of one long dead and cast into the Everlasting Dark. It was not so much in the features, for all faces, though they be structured similarly, are individual moldings. It was the expression in the eyes. Glorfindel was not unaccustomed, even in the proscribed surroundings of Lindon, to glances of desire and neither was he immune to sexual hunger. He was aware of the arrogant fire of Tindómion, the radiance of Gil-galad, and others also, such as the beauty of Thranduil, King of the Greenwood since his father's death on Dagorlad. So why had he imposed restraint on himself? Did he still hope that his chastity might earn some mercy for those cast into the Void?

The prisoner's eyes held no secret, half-ashamed lust. Not since Tirion had he been the recipient of a gaze filled with such flagrant carnality. As a Noldo – and Glorfindel was certain he was – the man could not be ignorant of the Valars' Laws, yet they seemed to mean nothing to him. But that was hardly surprising, if he had lived long in slavery to Sauron.

  
***

  
Spring had come even here. Where the encampments of the Elves stood, flowers unfurled, yellow and blue, startling in the barrenness. Perhaps they had been carried here as seed-pods on the feet of Men or Elves; howbeit, they took root and bloomed, frail and beautiful among the tents. When Glorfindel lifted back the flap, he paused there and said: "Walk with me, we need not keep thee here all the time."

He thought he glimpsed a flicker of surprise which melted into thoughtfulness, and then the prisoner moved, stepped to his side, and whispered in his ear: "Blindfold me."

Glorfindel turned his head in momentary surprise, and his mouth almost touched the smooth skin. He stilled and then nodded. If Sauron could see through the thrall's eyes, or read his mind, he should not see anything which might give him an advantage in this war.

In the end, he lead the prisoner. He did not know how else to guide one who had no sight, and so he laid the thrall's hand on his own shoulder, guiding him from the tent toward the rear of the lines. Looking at the tall figure, blindfolded and chained, Glorfindel felt a spur of anger drive home deep inside him. It was as if he looked at an eagle, wings clipped, its fierce majesty compressed into a cage. No Elf should be so entrapped, yet he did not feel pity; the prisoner somehow deflected pity. He walked now, even blind, proudly. Glorfindel studied the alien black markings climbing his arm, and which Gil-galad had said continued over the shoulders, down to a point on his spine, under which the Red Eye glowered.

"Flowers," the thrall said suddenly and halted, fine-cut nostrils flaring a little. "So thou hast brought spring even here, Golden One?"

"Perhaps our Silvan allies have," Glorfindel replied. "I am sorry that thou canst not see them."

The wide shoulders lifted. "I am often away from this land. I have memories of beauty."

The words were dispassionate, but they pierced Glorfindel with their unintentional poignancy.  
_ Memories of beauty._  
No wonder the slave withdrew. He must have had to do so all his life, to gain some respite from his life. Glorfindel had seen glimpses of that life; he was not one to turn from horror, and he wished to understand this strange captive. Yet still he could not pity. Some things went beyond that emotion, some depths were too abyssal for it to touch.

"What are the nine beings who serve Sauron?" he asked after a moment. For a long time now, they had been rumor of dread shadows who brought the cold of the Void with them. Here, they rode black horses accoutered for battle, and led legions of great orcs. Men could not see their faces, only their armor, with its cruel excrescences, but Glorfindel saw beyond that. These were damned things, held in some dreadful point between death and life. But once they had been more.

"_Nazgûl._" The word itself sounded dark, dragged from a deep pit. "Sauron made other rings beside the One. Nine he fashioned for Men, promising them power and immortality. In that," the prisoner added dryly, "he did not lie. The Nazgûl wield great fear, and where they dwell, death would be the greatest of mercies."

Glorfindel frowned.  
"Thou doth not fear them," he stated.

"No. I even understand them, a little. There can be no death for them, only a half-life of torment. And there are worse things than the Nazgûl." One side of the mouth lifted a little. "Are there not?"  
The covered eyes turned toward him and Glorfindel thought of the fire of the Balrog, the heat that he knew had melted his face, his eyes, the burning, blind...he too had been blind for a moment that seemed to last an Age, as he fell. He said, quietly: "Yes."

"The Nazgûl fear those with the light in them, and thou most especially. Thou didst take a Balrog with thee to death, and returned. They hate what is within thee and will try to avoid thee in battle. I watched thee: the high king, the Peredhel, the Fëanorion, like unsheathed swords of white fire."

Glorfindel said nothing. He heard longing in the tone, a yearning for acceptance by those whose blood the prisoner bore, from whom he had been reft.

"And he fears thee: all of thee, the Men of Númenor, the Elves. He would destroy the Men and make slaves of the Elves, if he could." Passion burned up in the voice. "Better that all of thee were fled to Valinor."

"We will not flee him!" Glorfindel glowed like a sun-storm.

"Then destroy him!" the prisoner hissed like a whip. And then he stiffened. He might have been impaled upon a lance. His back arched, his head flung back, and Glorfindel felt the agony explode through the body as he fell to his knees. He made no sound at all as his fingers dug into the ashen ground.

A high wind of fury swept through Glorfindel. He went down, grasped the knotted shoulders, holding them until the thrall's head lifted, his full mouth bloodless.

"Say no more. We will go back."

But the prisoner did speak as he came to his feet, his voice taut with pain, "No matter. He merely wishes to remind me I am his."

In the tent, Glorfindel tugged the blindfold free. The unveiled eyes were vivid in the white face. The slave hated his Master with such potency that it could overcome whatever torment was inflicted on him.  
He took the wine with a nod of thanks and drank it, before sinking down neatly. Glorfindel sat beside him, seeing the tiny pinpricks of pain-sweat about his hairline.

"We will destroy him, and thou wilt be free." He reached out, gripped the tattooed arm. "We are vowed to his destruction, and then thou canst live again. Thou art _ not his!_"

The hard profile did not change, but seemed to grow graver.  
"There is no freedom from memory."

That was unanswerable. It was true, there was no freedom from memory for the Elves, in the Halls of Mandos, or reborn. The still face turned to his, and it was startling in its beauty. In Barad-dûr he would burn like a Fëanorian lamp.

And suddenly, Glorfindel knew that, warrior though the man was, Sauron used him for other things, that he glutted his lust on his slave and would relish each time. The violet eyes met his, and he glimpsed the truth of it and was held for a moment in motionless abhorrence.

"Ai, Hells," he whispered. He was no stranger to erotic games or at least, once he had not been, but there was no pleasure in those brief, terrible images. The foulness clogged thick in his throat as he shared, for long heartbeats the slaves degradation. He was held down, so chained by power and steel that he could only writhe in torment as he was raped. By Sauron – and by other things: great Uruks, yellow eyed-wolves.

His eyes came back from the abominable visions, stared into the purple ones so close to his own. Glorfindel closed the gap and kissed the thrall, as if to claim him back from usage, from humiliation and soul-scouring shame.

Their mouths opened, drank from one another, parted to share breath, and rejoined like combatants seeking an opening. Glorfindel straddled the other, feeling the steel manacles press against him, the arch of the body. He drew back for a moment, looking down into the face on its pillow of hair, roused now, lips blood-flushed, before he swooped down again. His hands parted laces, traced over the breast and stomach, flicking over the nipples with his tongue and sucking on them as the prisoner bucked up. Under the breeches, he was as hard as Glorfindel, who released him, watched the engorged shaft spring up proudly, and stripped from his own garments, his eyes still upon it.

He heard a purr as he tossed his boots aside.  
"Magnificent." Long lashes half-shaded the eyes, giving them a look of seduction, of beckoning. The chains clinked as he moved his arms, raising them above his head, and that restless stretching only heightened Glorfindel's violent desire. He knelt and their lips met once more. The thrall's body rose into his, and his arms lowered, hands clamping Glorfindel's buttocks. The steel was cold, their flesh heated, and they rode against one another with increasing urgency, which became savage in its pursuit of release. There was such hunger in the prisoner's response, as if he were desperate for release, were starving for it like a wolf in winter. He was wanton, and his ardor found an answering blaze in Glorfindel.

They spent with groans, a rush of warmth. It was so long since Glorfindel had felt such pleasure that he became sensation. It surged through him in waves, before gradually subsiding into slow throbs. His face was buried in the liquid darkness of the thrall's hair. Breath stirred his own, and the rich, sated voice whispered: "I want thee."

He rose at that.

"What if I were to say _I_ would have _ thee?_" He raised his brows in challenge.

The thrall laughed. "Ah, Glorfindel would it not debase thee to possess _his_ slave?"

"If that is an attempt to gain my pity, it has failed. I do not pity thee." Glorfindel wiped himself with a washcloth and drew on his clothes.

"I do not want pity, I want thee, to feel thee, I want to ravage thee, possess thee, lose myself in thee. Perhaps we can both be lost for a while."

Glorfindel's blood seethed even as he said: "No-one has had me, not since..." He paused as the laughter came again, this time more amused, more teasing.

"Yes, he was in thy mind. I am not he, but thou canst imagine I am if it would help."

Anger drove Glorfindel from the tent and to his warriors, wondering why, even as he found his release, he should think back to Tirion and Fëanor's wild mastery.

_Consider thine offenses, before we meet again._

The words of Námo. His last words to Glorfindel. Had it been those words which had ensured his chastity since rebirth? Was he afraid that if he died he would be consigned to the Everlasting Dark? His desires had not faded and he, like Tindómion, had fought against them. He wanted that sultry, enigmatic prisoner, and it was not prompted solely by a need to give him something other than brutish violation. No, he _ hungered. _

Far away, Orodruin rumbled. It sounded like mocking laughter.

~~~

  


  


  
Chapter End Notes:   


  


* This meeting is told of in more detail in Dark Prince.  
[What Art Thou?](http://www.lotrfanfiction.com/viewstory.php?sid=10769&chapter=20)

  



	45. ~ Fire Under The Shadow ~

  
~ Glorfindel avoided the prisoner. He was displeased at the reaction he had evoked, the arrogance which had assumed he, Glorfindel, would capitulate. There was an unrelenting sensuality about the man, and Glorfindel could not deny his own lust. But he had not submitted to any save Fëanor, perhaps because of what had been woken in him then, or to prove that although the high prince of the Noldor might master him, no other would.

But Sauron's thrall had been forced to submit time and again to rape and torment which should have driven him mad. It was incomprehensible that he should be able to feel desire at all. He should have died, but some black sorcery chained his soul to life, and he had not been crushed under it, but become something brilliant and dangerous. He was, in and of himself, an act of overwhelming defiance against the Dark Lord. Something in Glorfindel wanted to – what? show him he approved, reward him by demonstrating that a union of two bodies could be magnificent? Or did he simply want him, and to show the man that Glorfindel was no Sauron.

  
~~~

  
Trumpets lifted their voices, urgent alarums proclaiming attack. Glorfindel raised his hand, and a young warrior was beside him in an instant helping him into his armor. The camps of the Elves and Men were astir, all were staring into the night.

"They carry no torches!" cried a voice. "But hark! the earth tells of their coming!"

Glorfindel needed no confirmation. He could _feel_ the approach, but what he sensed, even more strongly, was the one who lead the attack. Nazgûl, the prisoner had called them, _Úlairi._

His face shone with wrath as he lowered his helm, strode to his horse, riding it out to the front of the lines where the warriors were locking smoothly together. Gil-galad's war-stallion cantered to the forefront, Elrond at his side, Tindómion wheeled and galloped down the right flank.

Glorfindel came to a halt where the archers of Lórinand and the Greenwood were situated, seeing the pale glimmer of Thranduil and Amroth's fair heads in the dark before dawn.

"It is said the arrows of the Silvan Elves can hit a bird's eye in the dark," he cried and heard a grim bite of laughter from Amroth's folk as Thranduil, reaching behind him to his quiver, replied coolly: "Must we prove it to the _ Golodhrim_ again? The eye of an _yrch_ is no challenge, Lord Glorfindel."

The earth rebounded under the approaching tread of the enemy, slowly increasing to become the muffled thunder of thousands of feet. To Glorfindel they came like a wave of darkness and hate, and there something cold there, cold as lost grave in bitter winter, lightless as the pits of Barad-dûr. He sat still upon Celebellas, feeling his soul rise up against the ill. The stallion snorted and he whispered, "Peace."

Sarambar was shining furiously. Behind him the other Elves created an eerie silver glow, but Glorfindel's aura was the storm-roar of the sun as he waited.

At some unheard signal the enemy broke into a run. Glorfindel heard Thranduil off to his left speaking crisp orders in the Silvan tongue, echoed by the voice of Amroth of Lórinand, and at his back, the Elves of Lindon bent their bows. The arrows soared into the black sky in one curving arc.

The noise breathed gooseflesh up his spine, there was a terrible promise of death in the whine of thousands of steel-tipped shafts as they screamed down into the advancing orcs. Another flight of arrows loosed, following the first in a heartbeat, wave after wave punching into the enemy, hurling them back, eyes, throats, even heavy black armor pierced by the deadly bolts. There was no pause, no time to recover from the merciless assault. An unearthly shriek of rage clawed upward, pricking Glorfindel's scalp as if his hair were siezed by icy fingers.

And the command came to charge.

Celebellas, spurred by the love he bore his rider, surged forward, Glorfindel's eyes fixed upon a tall shape astride a madenned horse, armor which flickered with an unhealthy gleam like slow decay. A hiss of malice, a promise of death, echoed in the Elf-lord's mind.

"_I have already died!_" Glorfindel bit through his teeth and his stallion went up on it's hind legs, powerful quarters bunching and carrying it toward the wraith-lord in one leap. The black horse screamed and swerved aside.

Elves and Men clashed against the orcs with a sound that shattered the night. Fighting almost blind, they were guided by battle-wrath, and their weapons were wielded by sinew and rage. They drove forward with merciless discipline, each warrior infused by one resolve which did not falter, pushing back the orcs ell by ell.

_They will fear thee..._ The words of the thrall murmured into his mind and Glorfindel raised Sarambar like a torch.  
"_ Meet me!"_

For a moment, he saw the face, ghastly as a drowned corpse. A circlet of nobility was riveted about the helm and under it the features shifted, blurred, became young and regal, grey eyed, black haired. Then, with an unholy shriek of fear and of rage, the Nazgûl captain wheeled his mount and galloped into the night.

The gelid cold dispersed with him and the last defenses crumbled. Those who could, flung themselves into a scrabbling retreat even as the sky lightened with the dawn; a blood-scarlet sunrise, scarred with black fume from the outraged eruption of Orodruin.

  
~~~

  
The wounded had to be attended to, carried back to the tents where the healers waited. The aftermath of battle had an odor all its own: blood, sickness, the reek of sliced bowels, pain-sweat forced from the pores. Groans rose from the injured and dying, unashamed sobs as warriors discovered dead comrades. He saw Gil-galad kneel by each stricken man, saying their names, his presence giving them strength. Tindómion and Elrond went among them – the Peredhel had a true gift, passed down through his bloodline from Melian. When this siege ended, as it must, if he were able to lay down his sword, it would flower fully and he would become the greatest healer in Middle-earth.

It was late in the day when Glorfindel went to his own pavilion, saw, as he walked, the High King emerge from a tent, and Tindómion come to his side, gesturing, _ Come._ Both of them had divested themselves of their armor, but the tunics beneath were stiff with blood. Gil-galad nodded and the two walked away, shoulder to shoulder.

Water had been heated and Glorfindel gratefully stripped and washed, ate a little dried venison and fruit, sipped at the rich wine as he thought back over the attack. There had, he thought, been no Men, he had not heard their voices, but Men did not see well in the dark, orcs were bred in it and only Sauron's will goaded them to battle in daylight or sunlight.

"My lord Glorfindel?"

He raised his head to see one of the thrall's guards framed in the entrance.

"What is it?" He rose.

"The prisoner, my lord. He asks to speak with thee."

Glorfindel hesitated. The battle had not driven the earlier interlude from his mind; rather now, he was feeling the hot blood of the aftermath. He nodded, but as they walked from the tent, the guard murmured: "He was hurt, earlier. I saw nothing, but as the battle was ending, I heard him laugh as if he were amused. When I entered, he was lying still, as if felled by a blow."

Glorfindel's long stride lengthened.  
_ Thou wilt kick against the pricks, and he will punish thee. _

The thrall was sitting as he entered, there was nothing about him to suggest pain, save perhaps the ironic glint in the eyes as he came to his feet.

"Wilt thou tell me of the battle?" he asked.

"I hear that thou hast paid a price in agony for thine amusement at their defeat. I assume that thou needest no telling," Glorfindel replied curtly.

"I felt Sauron's anger. They were lead by the chief of the Nazgûl, no?" The thrall walked forward until he was face to face with Glorfindel and then around him, and murmured, "I told thee he would fear thee."

Why did the the words, the voice, sound so intimate?

"I faced him and he retreated, and I saw him for a moment as he must have been, before he was devoured. Who was he?"  
He heard the gentle clink of the shackles, felt warm breath against his cheek as the prisoner completed his circuit to stand before him.

"His name was once Er-Mûrazôr*, second son of Tar-Ciryatan, the Shipbuilder. He was once a great prince of the line of Elros Tar-Minyatur."

Glorfindel did turn then, frowning. "Thou knowest him?"

"I know him, yes. As a Man, he feared death, loathed the Elves who aged not, he was arrogant and ambitious as Ar-Pharazôn, but with less power. Sauron saw it – tempted him and ensnared him." A small shrug. "And now...he would beg for death but has no will but that of his master. Yet his soul is one long scream for release."

"And does thine own soul scream?"

There was not a flicker of reaction on the face, in the eyes, until that small, mocking smile touched one corner of the prisoner's mouth.  
"Not for release, Glorfindel. I may not think on that."

"There will be release if Sauron is destroyed."

"Truly? As the Nazgûl will be released?"

"Thou art not bound as they are! If he is brought down – their souls are still those of men, they would be free. Thou art an Elf." Glorfindel's hands closed on the hard arms and clamped there. "What – wouldst thou have me pity them? Thyself?"

"Would it be foolish to pity them?" the thrall wondered. "Yet, Sauron has no more powerful servants than the Nazgûl." There was a secretive smile deep in the violet eyes as if something in that statement amused him. "And do not pity me. I fear I would not know how to deal with such a thing. There are some things one cannot...afford."

Glorfindel slid the wineskin from his shoulder and poured two cups.  
"The Dark Lord sent legions of orcs in the dark, thousands of them. Our arrows halted them and our charge and the retreat of their commander routed them." He saw a look of satisfaction cross the other's face and knew that if he could, the prisoner would have been there, would have killed with merciless efficiency.

"How many injured or dead?" He did not mean of the orcs.

"Hundreds with wounds, less dead then we expected, but Uruk fight viciously and their blades carry poison." Glorfindel picked up the wine and after a moment, the thrall drank, their eyes locking, before he said: "_ Athelas _ will aid..."

The thin silver cup crumpled under the sudden crush of his fingers, sending the wine splashing up to hit the walls of the tent like a spray of arterial blood. Glorfindel dropped his own as the prisoner plunged to his knees, and went down with him, drawing him close as his soul flamed against the assault. He felt the darkness as it speared the captive, malevolent and terrible and in his mind, he cried out a furious denial against the Dark Lord.  
"Say naught!" he commanded. "Why must thou tempt him again and again?"

He heard a hiss of breath, and then the thrall's head rose, and the pain-hardened mouth met his fiercely, as if he drowned and sought a hand to pull him from the water. He drew back and whispered, "Wouldst thou bow the knee before him, Glorfindel?"

"No!" Glorfindel spat. "_Never!_"

"No." The prisoner rose and turned his back, tall and straight and arrogant. "The only way to fight him – is to _ fight him."_

  
~~~

  
The Siege of Barad-dûr was a grinding, bloody form of drudgery in that ashen land whose mountains cupped the heat like a great bowl. But no prolonged siege was one unremitting battle, even the War of Wrath had lasted many years, and both the Alliance and Mordor required times of respite and planning. Thus it was a conflict composed of attack and defense, the slow thrust forward of the Elves and Men to invest the Dark Tower, to keep the ground they gained, and prevent allies coming to swell the armies of Sauron.

On the Dagorlad, both Southrons and Easterlings had fought, but those had retreated or were pushed back into Mordor. The thrall told Gil-galad that he had been sent from Barad-dûr toward the Gap of the East to bring fresh contingents of troops. And later he said: "Sauron is their overlord, yes, but they have their own lands, kings and chieftains. If they are not summoned no more will come. They are not fools and there are few of them who would not live free. They are called the Men of Darkness, yet they value the same comforts as the Edain and the Elves, food and drink, love, they are proud to sire children and think thou that no woman has not wept if her child were taken as sacrifice, or her husband killed in battle? No more will come now."

Mordor was more fertile south of Gorgoroth, about the brackish inland sea of Nurnen, and the great slave farms there sent supplies north to Barad-dûr. This route was choked for, for although there were garrisons in Lithlad and Nurn, there was no army, and after several skirmishes nothing more came from the south.

Gradually, the Alliance closed on Barad-dûr. It was a difficult land to fight on, for the ground smoked in places and was cloven into fissures, but the eruptions from Orodruin did not spill down over the plain. Sauron had harnessed the flowing lava as if it were water running down guttering, turning its courses back toward his tower. It was a magnificent, frightening example of Sauron's brilliance, and so although the Alliance fought in heat and ash fall, or under towering thunderheads where lightning played, their advance was not slowed by rivers of molten rock.

The last engagement had been the most brutal since Dagorlad. The Dark Lord had sent forth five of the Úlairi, and Gil-galad, Glorfindel, Tindómion and Elrond rode out to face them, defying their power. In the struggle, a group of Lindon Elves had been cut off, smothered by the weight of their foes and borne away in the retreat. No-one wished to contemplate their fate, yet they could not control the trend of their thoughts, and a waiting silence lay over the encampment for six days, when at last a messenger broke it by running back from his post to the high king.  
"Sire..! We heard noises to the north, hammering, but but saw nothing, heard no great force..." The warrior's face was strained, sick about the eyes. "_Sire...!_"

They were too late. The range of their bows had been gauged by now, and this was no attack. It was a brutal declaration of hate.

The orcs had moved in darkness with their captives, and done their work swiftly, waiting for the time when the light began to lift the pall of night so that their enemies might see clearly.

The fires were visible first, small and bright, and then came a breaking of the quiet, for the torture could not be suffered in silence, although the dreadful sounds which issued from the throats of the Elves were strange, hoarse, dragged up from their bowels as the flames, lit between their outspread legs, began to roast their privates.

Glorfindel heard Tindómion curse, Gil-galad made a sound in his throat which echoed the agony of their kin.  
They ran on feet that seemed winged. That it might be a lure into a trap they knew. Let it be so; their white-hot fury accepted that risk.

It was no trap, but even for the swift feet of the Elves the distance was too far for them to cover at once, to come to the place where the Elves rising wails twisted in their own guts like blunt knives.

Their hair had been savagely hacked off to the scalp, deep cuts showed through the ragged tufts that remained, the delicate points of their ears had been sliced away and the symbol of the red eye raked into their foreheads. Below them, the eyes were ruined sockets, burned out by hot steel, the gaping mouths showed broken teeth and the stump of the tongues torn out. The stench of roasting flesh was thick and foul about them.

None of them hesitated. In acts of transcendent love and grief, they drew their daggers and sent their tormented kindred into the gentler arms of death.

The terrible noises abruptly ceased but still rang in their ears as they loosed the lifeless Elves and carried them back across the plateau to the encampment.

The ranks who had watched drew back before them in silence, closed in behind them as they approached the king's pavilion where they laid down the eight bodies. Others came forward, with water and balm and tenderly, with the utmost gentleness, they cleansed and prepared the _rhaw_ for burial.

  
~~~

  
The tent walls were no bar to hearing, and even had he heard nothing, he would have felt it.  
He knew Glorfindel would come that evening, driven by the fury and grief which he must not reveal. Those who rule, who lead, must always hold themselves aloof, cannot appear vulnerable.

Glorfindel burned under the skin, rage crackling about him. He looked magnificent, dangerous, and wholly desirable as he strode toward Vanimórë and struck him a blow across the face, powerful as a dwarf-wielded hammer.

Vanimórë did not even try to avoid the blow. It exploded through his head. Black and white light shattered his vision and the second backhanded slap snapped his head back. He tasted blood in his mouth even as a punch landed in in his gut, only his own strength and iron muscles preventing the air rushing out of his lungs. He did not defend himself. He was accustomed to holding himself silent under torture, through rape, and he understood what motivated the Elf-Lord. Fingers curled in his hair, jerked his head back and he felt the edge of a blade at his throat.

For a moment he wondered if this was to be his end. He knew what awaited him, he had heard the promise numberless times: the Void, Morgoth, no release in death, no hope of rebirth, imprisoned forever in a place with no beginning, no end, no hope...

_ And is that not my fate, sooner or late, whether I live a thousand Ages, or die now? _

He whispered, fey and feckless: "Kill me."

Glorfindel's muscles tensed and Vanimórë waited, his breath stilled, for the slice across his neck which would cut his artery. Time held itself between heartbeats until with a sudden exhalation of breath, the dagger was withdrawn.

"Is this how thou wouldst fight?" He was jerked around, fingers digging hard into his arms. "Our kindred whom he tormented would have shown more courage!"

"There are other ways to fight."

"His mind is linked to thine, is it not?"

"As thou hast seen."

"Then I would have him know that no matter his powers, whom he is, Maia, or Vala _ we will see him fall until he is naught but a memory hissing on the winds!" _

Through the attack which smashed into him, Vanimórë heard Sauron's laughter, and yet felt behind it, a splinter of doubt lodged in the Dark Lord's heart which only victory would remove. Pain tore his stomach, eyes, his mouth, as he felt the torments of the dead Elves, and he locked his soul away, while his spirit screamed silently in the aether.

Glorfindel watched him fall to his knees, draw them up to his chest and hold himself. He thought, in sudden understanding: _ Yes, this is how he fights, refusing to spare himself, refusing to cry out..._

"Thou shalt feel this, Sauron! Thou shalt feel thy soul ripped apart!" he vowed as he went down beside him, reached out a hand.

Abruptly, the prisoner's struggle ceased. In unconsciousness, his limbs relaxed, hair falling over his face. Drawing it back, Glorfindel saw the thick lashes closed over the eyes as if in death, but his heart, gentling from its harsh thunder, became slower, that of some-one in sleep.

"I am sorry," he whispered, contradictions of empathy and fury colliding within him and then running away, leaving only an abyss of sorrow. A tear of blood showed stark against the white flesh as it wept from the folded lips, and Glorfindel lowered his head, tasted it on his tongue. He wondered often this had happened, how many times in some dark chamber, the thrall had lain felled by agonies. The mark of his blow stained the high cheek. Glorfindel covered it with his hand, feeling the heat there. It was strange to see the prisoner oblivious, there was such a vitality to him that this state was unnatural, as if an arrow had caught a flying hawk and dropped it to the earth. Yet there was still about him a sense of self-sufficiency, of endurance, which would not be compromised by pity.

Glorfindel wondered again who he was, from what house, or what sept of a great house he sprang, whose blood he bore to have forged in him this implacable steel, the will to struggle against one far stronger and more cruel. Once there would have been a father and mother who rejoiced in his birth and loved him. But in the wars of the First Age many fathers had been slain, many mothers bereft of husband and son. And in some battle or skirmish this one had been captured and bound with fetters stronger than those he now wore. Perhaps his captors had merely been toying with him, seeing how long they could keep him alive...Glorfindel thought of the reports from Maglor, of a woman whom had been raped, forced to carry a horrific child while her mind collapsed into madness. It was possible that other Elves had been experiments, attempts to control them...His eyes narrowed on that thought – for had not the Valar always desired to control them? Sauron had created the One Ring to bind the others to his will, but his attempt had failed. If this thrall was such an experiment, it had succeeded.

"Whom art thou?" he wondered.

The vivid eyes opened. There was a brief expression in them Glorfindel recognized: relief after the passing of great pain.  
"I am no-one," he said with a brilliant, taunting smile.

With a curse of impatience, Glorfindel turned, poured wine and handed it to the prisoner, who had sat up, raising his bound hands to accept the goblet. He drank deep, and moved his head from side to side.  
"Thou doth hit hard."

"I should not have done it. Forgive me." The words felt stiff in his mouth, but he heard no rancor in the reply.  
"I am close to Sauron, through me, he will know of thy rage."

This confounded Glorfindel, and he sat back on his heels for a moment, staring at the prisoner, who looked back at him unwinkingly and continued, "Thou knowest he uses me – that we are...intimate. Perhaps thou didst seek to anger him by hurting me – by showing him thou couldst take my life?"

That arrow hit too near the gold. Was Glorfindel so bitter, so enraged against the dark, by what he had lost – what all the Noldor had lost in the wars of the First Age – that he would harm an unarmed prisoner? Yes, he admitted, silently. He had died at Cristhorn believing he had failed, and what he had been shown when he was reborn had not assuaged the anger and sorrow.

"And would it anger him?" he asked.

A shrug. "Perhaps. I have been his a long time after all. I am useful." The words were indifferent, as if the thrall did not truly know, or care. He blinked once, like a cat, and said, with a lift of his brow, "I would have brought the Easterlings west about the Ered Lithui and then thou wouldst still be fighting on two fronts. That is what I am: a commander and a plaything – and I am very, _very_ good at both."

"I asked once, if there were others like thee. No, do not speak yet." Glorfindel raised a hand, as the prisoner's expression became intent. "Before Turgon removed to Gondolin, we received a message from Maglor. There had been an orc raid. It was turned back, but some Elves were captured." He watched the impassive face. "A woman was found, impregnated by an orc, or so Maglor believed."  
The violet eyes flickered.  
"No Elf can withstand the harm wrought on their soul by violation, yet she lived, as thou. He said that her unborn was trying to tear itself from her body and he ended her life. The thing was alive and hungry, teeth and nails like steel, and there was a black sorcery in the air."  
He felt a wave of emotion like heat radiate from the thrall, powerful as the opening of a kiln door, but there was only a perfectly tempered calmness in the voice.  
"It would not have been an orc-pup. Morgoth wanted to create creatures of power." The long lashes fanned down, hiding his eyes for a moment. "Orcs are hungry when they are born, yes, but they suckle at the teat, like Men or Elves. They grow swiftly, but not as fast as that. And Mortal women have birthed orc-seed without harm – to their bodies at least." He glanced up, shook his head. "whatever – whomever – got the woman with child, sorcery was used on it to create a monster."

Glorfindel gazed at him, brows drawn down, sensing something behind the dispassionate voice. He hunted for it, but the meaning eluded him, concealed under the enameled face, the opaque eyes.

"Thou wouldst ask if Morgoth, if Sauron, sought to create some melding of Elf and Orc? Perhaps. Why? Am I one, then?" The prisoner spread his arms as wide as the chains would allow and laughed.

"I think we would see more had they succeeded. So they did not – but they did successfully chain thy soul," Glorfindel returned, disturbed. "No. Not thou – thou art Noldo. Thou must have been very young," he added, almost to himself.

The laughter faded, but the ambiguous smile lilted a moment on the scrolled lips.  
"I fear I cannot share reminiscences of my youth with thee." He moved onto his hands and knees and approached, silent and graceful. Glorfindel knew that this must be a position he was forced to adopt often, and he turned it into an act of predatory beauty.

"I will make a bargain with thee, Golden One. Thou art sickened and enraged by the acts perpetrated upon thy people, and would forget it for a while. I have never _willingly_ given myself to any-one – any _thing_ But I will let thee take me, if thou wilt allow me the same, _when I ask it._" ~

~~~

 

 

Notes: 

  
* The history of the Witchking of Angmar is not canon, it is taken from the MERP ( Middle-earth Role Play ) modules, published in the 80's-90's.


	46. ~ Sunstorm And Night ~

 

 

  
~ Blue-black hair framed the thrall's face like scrollwork, spilled down over his arms, coiled upon the floor, along the arch of his back. He looked wild, wanton, despite – or even because of – his fetters.

Glorfindel found himself resting on his hands, imitating the prisoner, as if they were two warhounds, half-aggressive, half-curious, each determined to prove their dominance over the other. He thought of the laws of the Valar, but they had no meaning here, when his mind, his body were filled with bright-burning lust. Not love, no. Fëanor and Ecthelion had taught him that one need not be in love to enjoy a lover.  
And now, into a war which, whatever its outcome, would change Middle-earth, this man had come, one who lived his dark existence with a flair and panache that somehow surmounted it. That attitude of fatalistic self-mockery, as much as his physical beauty, made him desirable. It was not hard to see why even Sauron would want him, and continue to want him, to see the pride and power humbled time after time.

"I know much thou doth need." The whisper brushed against his lips. "To lose thyself for a little while. Have me. Claim something back from Sauron."

"He will punish thee." Glorfindel's voice was husky.

"And so?" The full mouth nuzzled his, moved along the line of his jaw, to murmur against his ear, "This is arousing, no? I am shackled, at thy mercy, waiting for thee to take me...Did _ he_ show thee these ways? I wish I had known him. I admire that about the Noldor – thou art not afraid to explore the depths of thy souls." He nipped down gently on Glorfindel's lower lip, and his eyes gleamed as he drew back, "Come, take what thou dost want. Am I not _thy_ slave, here? _ Master me !_"

Glorfindel exploded into passion, throwing himself forward and the thrall rolled aside. He came up at once and they circled, two lions, golden and black-maned. Glorfindel heard husky laughter, saw the smile – and the impossibly swift motion as the thrall snapped out his hands. The chain settled about Glorfindel's neck and pulled. He thrust himself away from it. They collided, wrestling, biting, kissing as passionate enemies kiss, until Glorfindel flung one leg across the narrow hip, and raised his head. Disordered waves of gold poured down over raven-black. Slowly, the the thrall raised his arms, let them rest above his head, pushed up with his hips, pressing his arousal against Glorfindel's breeches.

"Oh, _superb,_" he whispered, warm as velvet. "Show me how an Aman-born and reborn Elf-prince takes the Slave of Sauron. Show me, Golden One."

Laces snapped as Glorfindel ripped apart the leather vest, then came to his feet and flipped Sauron's thrall onto his stomach. There came a smoky laugh as he wrenched the breeches down over the prisoner's long thighs. He paused only to pull off his boots, to unstopper the phial of oil he had brought to prepare himself – as he had known he would from the moment he had seen this man. The prisoner raised himself to his knees, and heavy hair slipped aside to show the brand of the Red Eye glaring on the base of his spine. Through a haze of lust, Glorfindel wondered how many times Sauron had seen this, watched the thrall kneel before him, and the thought fused anger and desire in one violent flash as he thrust deep into the body offered to him.

It must hurt, oil or no, but the only sign of it was the inward arch of the back, the toss of the head. There was no sound, save the controlled, gasping breaths of one who strives to master pain. But the sudden enclosure by the tight heat which clenched about him, banished all other thoughts from Glorfindel's mind, and he drove harder, deeper, slamming against the taut buttocks. He was losing himself, breaking a long fast, and the feeling was both familiar and newborn – and glorious. Throbbing, growing harder with the friction, the sense of conquest, he raced toward the place where fire would engulf him, light blind him...

The thrall hissed and, through his haze of rising pleasure, Glorfindel knew that the splendid face would be stone-hard, showing no delight, no wonder, there would be only the impassive mask he wore when raped by the Dark Lord, by orc, by wargs, by Men...

_ I am not as they! _

Fëanor had used him hard, there was too much fire in him for gentleness, but he had always given him almost unbearable ecstasy...  
Perspiration sprang on Glorfindel's brow as he drew back, entered again, more slowly, and this time deliberately stroked the secret place within.

The harsh breaths faltered, the back bowed again, but the strain shuddered out of the muscles in a tremor as Glorfindel withdrew, thrust, quickening. The silence which could not be broken by pain was shattered by pleasure. The prisoner loosed a low, purring groan, "_Yes!_" and pressed back, demanding more. Their rhythm became more savage, more feral. The thrall's tattooed arms braced, rigid muscles quivering. His head flung back, each collision reverberating through his body.  
"_Take me. Harder!_"

Glorfindel's needs were so imperative that he could only rush headlong to slake his body's long drought. He reached forward at the last, his fingers closing around the thrall's hot, silk-sheathed erection, felt its pulse, the weeping essence of arousal, and they fell into a release which left Glorfindel throbbing, glowing, deaf and blind.

***

Why had he offered? He did nothing on a whim. He could not afford to have whims, he had learned that very young.  
To him, being possessed was synonymous with pain, with shame and hate. Possession was the tightening clamp on his mind, the bite of iron which bound him until he could not move, bits forced between his lips. It was the horror of feeling the engorged member of an uruk pounding into him, the rank drool splashing from a warg's mouth as he was mounted like a bitch-wolf. Possession was the silent screams of denial and outrage which cast his mind into blackness, unable to endure the disgust, the agony. It was Sauron, perilous in his beauty as Annatar, promising him love, and the punishment that followed when he refused, willing his body not to respond to the sweet-sick caresses which his father knew he detested, and thus forced on him the more. Possession was what had honed his mind to control, his body into a weapon, allowed – or rather demanded – that he appreciate what beauty he found with the wonder only the destitute truly know.

Some things are so black they may not be dwelled on. He knew what lay on that path of self-pity, for he had trodden the first steps uncounted times. And turned back. Down there lay only maniacal laughter which would tear into screams; screams which would become him, all he was, imprisoning him within madness. There would be no respite. He would suffocate for eternity and his shrieks would rise from him, echo in the aether, bounce from lightless stone while he crouched in the bowels of Barad-dûr, broken, filth-encrusted, a skeletal thing unable to die...  
_ I will not break! _ he had vowed in Angband, crazed by the pain of Morgoth's violation, the death of his twin. How innocent he had been then. Yet there was no other way, if he broke he was lost until until the End.

He had accepted he could never be counted among the Elves, even were Sauron to be destroyed. There was no place for one so made. Yet now he was among them, held as a prisoner, yet able to enjoy their presence. He had seen Gil-galad and Maglor's unknown son, who both burned for one another, who roused him with their startling beauty – and there was Glorfindel who blazed alone and lonely. Vanimórë desired, remembering Maglor and he knew that Glorfindel would possess the same fire, the same passion. But Maglor had endured madness and torture, been alone in Barad-dûr. Glorfindel was in the fullness of his power and strength, and as unwilling to submit as Vanimórë. And there were memories behind his eyes, emotions, names, which painted vivid images of a time long gone, of passion with, and submission to, one who burned with a raging diamond flame.

Vanimórë thought on that often as the days limped on, when he saw no-one but those who silently bought him food and wine, water to wash with. He could envy Glorfindel the brilliant lover who had mastered him, could understand that one, long gone to ash and fire and his need to master the golden beauty, see him tremble with pain, with pleasure, as Vanimórë had seen Maglor – and relished every moment of it.

Ultimately, he gave himself because he wanted to _feel_ Glorfindel, and force him through his self-imposed barriers of control. The thrill of watching his tension grow, feeling the storm-charge between them, had over-ridden the fear of pain, for he knew Glorfindel would not be gentle, roused by wrath and hunger. And Vanimórë did fear pain, he had only learned to endure it, to know it would fade. He would suffer this to allow Glorfindel to bury the anguish, rise above it, for he knew this red rage, this desire to strike back against wrongs done, he knew it intimately – and so he offered himself.

He felt the slickness of oil, but the swollen girth wrenched him open with a shocking burn. He closed his eyes, his fingers digging like claws into the floor. The warm scent of Glorfindel's body, the brush of loose hair against his flanks, these alone reminded him that this was no orc or wolf. There was no malice here, only the fierceness of one forced over the edge, and Vanimórë had known it would be thus. His body shuddered each time Glorfindel's crashed against him, and he locked his muscles and waited, as he had always waited, for the spill of the seed into him, the relief of the ending, yet knowing that after, he would feel no revulsion.

And then abruptly, it changed. Glorfindel drew back, paused, then pushed in, this time slowly. Heat and warmth flushed through Vanimórë, racing to his groin, and so unexpected, so intense was the pleasure that he gasped out, "_Yes!_" and thrust back. The pain, the rapture converged, two flood-tides which swept him down a river of lust. They engulfed him and he became it, the fire, the ecstasy, the fulfillment.

Dimly, through the astonishing aftermath, he was aware of his father lashing out, a brief, harsh slap of chastisement, and yet it did not touch him. Sauron was preoccupied with other matters, and perhaps his son's own power and Glorfindel's glowing _fëa_ wove a web about them, elevated Vanimórë above punishment for a time. He allowed himself to savor the moment, until he heard Glorfindel's long exhalation of breath, felt him move. He turned, watching as Glorfindel rose to his feet, smiled lazily, and murmured: "Oh, yes, thou art indeed _good._"

"Thou didst goad me into forcing thee," Glorfindel threw at him, as he poured water into a bowl and wrung out a washcloth. He cleansed himself, tossed a clean cloth to Vanimórë. It came away streaked with red, and the Elf-lord cursed and flung on his clothes. "I will bring thee something."

"There is no need, I will heal." Vanimórë laughed to himself and lay back again. His eyes fluttered closed, but the smile still lingered on his mouth.

  
***

  
Glorfindel strode angrily to his pavilion, only pausing in the entrance to look over his shoulder, feeling the weight of Barad-dûr like a blow to his back. Sauron was aware, but why would it rouse his anger that one of his many slaves had coupled with another? And then he thought: _He has many slaves, but no Elves – or none whom survived. That thrall is deemed his property. _

In the tent he picked up a jar of unguent before returning. The guards were carefully blank faced, whatever they had heard, they would not question him.

The prisoner looked incongruously relaxed, head resting on one arm, only the tightening of his muscles told of his discomfort as Glorfindel applied the salve with the impersonal gentleness of a healer. Only then did rise and dress. His expression showed no pain, and his eyes were rich as they moved with appreciation from Glorfindel's head to his booted feet.

"No, thou art nothing like...them," he murmured. "And didst thou not lose thyself for a time, Golden One?"

"Didst thou?"

"Now, what think'st thou?" His tone was luxurious with memory. "And our bargain?"

Glorfindel began to speak and stopped. The words, _ I made no bargain._ lodged behind his teeth as he gazed into the violet eyes, realizing that he felt no embarrassment, no shame, no sense of transgression, save in the force he had used. The thrall had, he knew, deliberately driven him to that point, yet he should not have used him as an object through which vent his anger.  
The black brows lifted, waiting.

"Yes," he said.

The prisoner reached forward, buried his hands to the wrist in the tousled golden hair. Glorfindel did not move, save for the heat which began to harden in his groin like a clenching fist.

"I am not accustomed what thou didst give to me." Purple eyes danced wickedly. "I owe thee a debt, and I will repay it. In full." His fingers drew through the loose hair and the simple action was seductive. "Thou wert _hungry._"

"And thou didst know it!" Glorfindel growled, and the other said: "Yes..." And he laughed before their wild kiss quenched it.

"I may have damned thee. Thou wert willing. Or dost thou not know the Laws of the Valar?"

The thrall threw back his head and this time the laughter was hard, amused.  
"No, Golden One, I tempted _thee,_ as I always intended to. Perhaps I might have tempted the high king, or his smoldering lover, but they need one another, not me. And thou – thou didst need this. If the Valar seek to place blame, let them. Long did I call to them for aid and mercy, before I knew no-one would aid me but myself." He spoke as if relating an old tale in a dusty book, but Glorfindel's brows drew together.  
"What dost thou think the Valar could do to me that has not been done?"

"They could banish thee to the Void, as they have others."

"I have been prepared for that all my life." The flashing smile mocked his words. "I am ready, but before that sentence is passed, I will take what pleasure I can." The chains rang as his his hands rested on Glorfindel's hips, and they rocked together, touching with a flash of fire. The prisoner groaned, tipped back his head and then sighed.  
"But not now, thou didst ride me hard, and I think I will let thee grow hungrier yet."

Glorfindel stared at him, aching, flushed and then spun and walked from the tent, swearing under his breath, oblivious to those he passed. He was hard again, and furious with himself and the prisoner. He heard the teasing sound of the thrall blowing a kiss at him as he left. Had he not been so angry he would have laughed in disbelief, but he knew that under that glossy, debonair mien lay an abyss of torment.   
If the Valar damned one who had been enslaved to Sauron for so long, known suffering and horror, then in truth there was no difference between them and those they called enemies.  
But Glorfindel had long known that. ~

~~~


	47. ~ Solstice Fire ~

  
~ The night was feral with magic.  
The time of the Winter Solstice had come, harbinger and hope of spring. Perhaps it was defiance which encouraged the celebration within sight of the Dark Tower.  
The wind had turned that day, driving the piled heads of the great clouds east and upward, and stars glared down upon Mordor. Fires were lit, lamps uncovered, and the Elves and Men staggered their watches so that all might spend some time in celebration and companionship.

Music rose, fey and unearthly as a rising lark from the Silvan Elves, the Noldor blending fury and flame, threnodies which carried a sea-sound from the Teleri, the melodies of flowing rivers and fretting lakes from the Sindar. At first they were easily distinguished, but gradually, in a strange alchemy, they began to meld, creating one music.  
There was power in that music as it swelled, ancient lays and words, weaving the Essence of Arda, the air became luminous, as if the star-sheen were called down from the vault of the sky, sharpening every nerve to an exquisite awareness.

Barad-dûr watched like a thunder-browed tyrant. Lightning bloomed in the distant cloud-masses, red spears flicking upward from the topmost spires of the Dark Tower.

The fires and lamps painted the dancing figures a bloody ocher and luminous white. Some were naked, uninhibited as they whirled and leaped, long hair streaming behind them, feet leaf-light on the hard ground and all, whether they be the wild Silvans who recked nothing, or knew naught of the Valarin laws, or the Aman-born Noldor who did, ached with lust. In the shadows, the Wood-Elves clashed in rut, shameless and wild as mating animals.

Tindómion had played from the moment the first stars began to shine. He became one with each note, with the whole. He did not look at the array of strings, he knew the thrum of each one, and as soon as the high king had entered his vision he saw nothing else. Gil-galad was with Baesel and Borin, Elrond, Vórimóro and Glorfindel. All of them bore spears, each shaft tied with a long pennon of their House. _Aeglos_ burned blue-silver as the king raised it toward the red-wreathed monolith of Barad-dûr.

The dance was martial yet imbued with all the fierce grace of the Noldor. They moved like athletes; warriors fighting foes only they could see, lunging, ducking, whirling in and around one another in a knotwork of increasing complexity and speed. From it, they would suddenly form rank, and their booted feet and the butts of the spears beat a tattoo of challenge like an Easterling war-drum.

Tindómion played for the king alone. He had risen now, and his notes matched the warriors movements even as theirs seemed to echo the rhythm of his harp. Gil-galad's eyes met his whenever his motions brought him about.  
They cast challenge toward Sauron, and the six were joined by others and yet more, forming a great line which flowed together, became one entity. All bore weapons, some swords, others bows or daggers and each of them might have practiced every move until it was flawless. The king's eyes burned likes stars as they gazed on the Fëanorion, and they said: _ Come, be with me! _

Tindómion strode to his pavilion, returned with a spear and stepped to his place at Gil-galad's side.

The music now seemed formed by the Elves actions, as if the air itself were a mighty instrument which they played as their bodies interleaved, knelt, leaped, turned gracefully, brandished their spears and, at the last, held them pointed toward Barad-dûr. Two warriors raced along the front with torches, and the pennons blossomed into fire-flowers. The warriors stepped back, and back again, paused, then ran forward in unison, hurling their spears,which flew together, a great curving arrowhead, to come down in the earth, burning in the dark beyond the camp.

Tindómion looked at Gil-galad. There was only they two of them, and Mordor itself might have been nebulous, a dark dream crouched on the edge of their minds. He walked side by side with the king and entered the great tent.

The Fëanorion lamp was half shuttered, the glow striking sparks from the high king's armor. A brazier burned. Herbs had been tossed onto the coals and scent was heady, smelling of spices and summer knot-gardens.

Gil-galad moved to the table where wine and goblets were placed, and the light drowned liquid in the disheveled torrent of his hair. He poured and pushed one cup to Tindómion, who took it and drank a little, then began to loosen the king's triple braids, wound with gold thread as his father's had been.

At these moments they never spoke, although in council and among their warriors they conversed with an openness that had been lost to them since Gil-galad's kingship had been challenged. Private times were few, but unless the matter was urgent, none disturbed them if one was seen to enter the other's pavilion. No-one would openly conjecture on the nature of their relationship, any more than they would question Glorfindel's visits to the strange prisoner. They had lead, bled, spared nothing of themselves in this war; if they found respite and comfort, it was not for any here to judge. Glorfindel had stated that the Valar would not punish a whole people for the acts of one or two, and few doubted his word. Those who had, and had called for the High King to abdicate had not marched to war, but remained in Lindon, ready to take ship if the Alliance were defeated. This had reflected badly on them and their cronies; there were those, such as Baesel and Borin, who had watched Fingon in battle (save the last, the most terrible, which still grieved them, who would have died with him.) and knew that his love for Maedhros had not made him any less a great warrior, prince or king.

But in the years of the siege, thoughts of sin were far from Tindómion's mind, lost behind the immediacy of Gil-galad, his love, his desire to shoulder some of his king's burden. It was not close enough for him, perhaps was close enough to break the Laws afresh, but had he not broken them long ago? It seemed there had been no time in his life he had not loved Gil-galad, and war forced people together, heightened and refined emotion. Before others the love was expressed in speech or in battle. In private, all words were left beyond the tent, for even eloquence seemed vain.

Tindómion reached about Gil-galad, his fingers finding the gilded belt, unbuckling it, slowly unfastening the clasps of the velvet tunic. It parted and and he laid it in the oak chest, moved around and unlaced the shirt. It was mist-fine, clinging to the king's chest and flat stomach with the heat of his flesh. He felt his own tunic open, shrugged it off, and then Gil-galad was drawing his own shirt over his head. Their movements were unhurried, but their breathing quickened as their hands moved to their belts-buckles. Tindómion forestalled the king by kneeling to pull off his boots, ease the breeches from the long legs so that Gil-galad stood naked and glorious before turning and walking through to his bed-place.

He lay on his stomach, head pillowed on his arms, as Tindómion warmed fragrant oil in his palms and began to massage him. This was both a companion's duty, an exquisite delight, and a torture, a way of easing the king's tensions for a while, and a simple excuse to touch him. Tindómion's hands skimmed down over the hard buttocks, and his loins throbbed. The music outside, potent and wild, blanketed the sounds which began to issue from Gil-galad's lips, sighs and deep moans of pleasure which grew with each touch of Tindómion's hands. He pushed into the coverlets, in a rhythm which inflamed, beckoned, urged...and the Fëanorion felt himself moving with it, straddling the king's hips, his erection hard against the tight cleft, their groans melding.

The king turned as Tindómion drew back. Their eyes were wild in the in the gloom and Gil-galad arched up, seeking more contact. The Fëanorion's bronze hair foamed down over his breast. For a moment they stared at one another, faces like two carvings on a shield-boss, before they came together, furiously. _ Starfire. Wildfire_. Their hips ground together, aggressive in lust and the kiss shattered into gasps, ragged breaths.

Tindómion broke the storm reluctantly with bites and the lap of his tongue down Gil-galad's throat and chest. He paused to tease the nipples until the king hissed and threw back his head. Tindómion followed the path of the hard stomach to where the shaft proudly rose, liquid pearl gleaming on its tip. He lowered his head, taking it deep into his throat.

The king bucked violently. Tindómion tasted salt and musk as he swallowed, swept the shaft with tongue, drew on it. It hardened, quivered in his mouth and then came the sudden gush and pulse as Gil-galad spasmed, once, twice and again.

His fingers loosed their hold on Tindómion's skull, slipped languidly through his hair. Tindómion rested his head on the king's muscled stomach, closing his eyes. His lips nuzzled over the warm flesh, shaping the words that he would not say aloud.

***

  
The magic in the night beyond touched him, drew him to the guarded tent-flap, but the guards did not halt him as he took a step out. He was not trusted, but he would walk with Glorfindel at times, and had never attempted to escape.

"Let me see." His tone, as if he were not asking, but commanding, brought their heads about, but then a voice said: "Yes, let him come out."  
It was Glorfindel, shining like golden nacre, and Vanimórë followed him.  
The music burned through him as he watched the light on the faces, in the swirling hair, the blaze of the eyes. His spirit rose up with it like an eagle seeking the sun, but then other glimpses, memories, splintered into his mind – smoking bowls on great pillars, red light, crimson blood. _ Dancing...killing..._

Sauron was older than the world, and he had no truck with superstition. Powers did not need superstitions – they were the cause of them. But Ages of belief and the rites associated with them had slowly gouged themselves into the fabric of Arda, as dripping water wears a hollow in stone, creating its own reality.  
In Barad-dûr there would be sacrifices for the solstice. Sauron was overlord to peoples whom had created superstitions and talismans out of fear, but their demons were no shadows birthed from those ancient fears. They were real. Their overlord was real.

Were Vanimórë there this night, he would whirl and spin down the throne-hall, naked, unchained for this night, but bound nonetheless, as bound as the sacrifices chained to the double row of iron pillars which flanked the approach to the throne. Some would be men, others women, but, if Vanimórë obeyed Sauron's orders, there would be no children, and that was the biter bit upon him. As he leaped, twisted, danced toward the throne, his blades would flick out, opening the throats of the captives in blurs of silver, hearing the chokes, the gurgling moans of the dying, until he came to the steps where he would go down on one knee, the blooded scimitars crossed above his head.

_ Come to me. _

He would lower the swords carefully and rise, blood splashed across his body and walk up to the throne. Beyond it rose a carving of something – some-one – created with all of Sauron's skill. At times it would appear hideous and terrible, it's eyes sucking out life and will, an oppressive sentience within it. Then a change of light would reveal it as majestic, beautiful, an aloof God who stared over their heads at the offerings made in his name.

Melkor.

Vanimórë would walk to Sauron, unloosing the rich robes, watching them whisper to the floor. He would slip his hands into the pale hair and kiss him, worship his way down the body, and then position himself to become another offering, a perpetual sacrifice to the Dark. Sauron would take him there, fiercely, while the blood ran and the torches breathed, and the statue observed them with cold, intelligent triumph.

Firelight blazed Glorfindel's hair to molten metal, he seemed limned in liquid gold...

_ Come to me._

_ No._

Sauron filled him, stretched him, burned, owning him, claiming him for himself, for Melkor, moving faster, harder, hands on his hips...

_ Come to me, my beautiful son! _

His muscles knotted, he jerked his hands violently apart, felt the manacles cut into his flesh.

_ No!_

_ Thou art ours._

He watched as the spears drew a burning silver arc in the sky, dropped down.

_Thou art mine._

A whisper in his mind, in his ear, close as breathing, a hand brushing over his chest, down to his groin.

_ Thou canst not come here! _

_ I can go wherever thou goest, my son, I am in thy mind. _

His eyes closed, his jaw locked, he felt blood running down his hands.  
Laughter brushed his mind. He turned away from the fires and the light, and the tent flap fell behind him. ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vanimórë in Angband, by [Deimos&amp;Phobos Art on Tumblr](http://deimos-phobos-art.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=n4h7hi)


	48. ~ Will You Be With Me When Darkness Falls? ~

 

~ _ Come back._

He roused from dreaming, opened his eyes. It was dawn, the air seeping through the tent flap smelled of frost and smoke.

Glorfindel was holding a cup of steaming wine. Vanimórë took it and drank. The Elf-Lord's eyes were brilliant in the dimness. They traced over the dried blood which had idled down from Vanimórë's wrists and he frowned, wringing out a cloth.

"What did he do?"

"Mordor celebrates the Solstice. He showed me memories, that was all." The answer came muted then, with a sudden, blazing smile, he said: "Why, Golden One, wert thou going to come to me?"

Glorfindel cast him a quick, goaded glance as he threw the cloth into the bowl.  
"It was a wild night."

"It is too dangerous when his thoughts are on me."

"Dangerous for _whom?_"

"Suffice it to say that I would rather enjoy thee without his whispers in my mind." Vanimórë sipped the wine, tasted ginger, cinnamon. "I wanted thee."

"This is madness and thou knowest it." Glorfindel exhaled slowly. "What wilt thou do?"

"I do not let myself think of that," Vanimórë said, inflexionless. "Unless the One Ring is destroyed itself. He put so much of himself into it...who can predict what will happen if it were destroyed?"

"Hast thou seen it?"

A quick, upward glance from opaque eyes. "Many times."

"Hast thou ever thought of wearing it? Using it?"

"For what?" Vanimórë asked. "To become like him?" He laughed humorlessly. "No. The One could not give me what I desire."

"Freedom?" Glorfindel murmured.

"For me, there is no freedom."

"There will be," Glorfindel's said fiercely. "One day thou shalt have freedom. And then what wilt thou become?"

  
***

  
Gil-galad's gauntleted hand lifted his helm, placed it under the crook of his arm. The plume brushed his greaves. He was ready to walk among the army, to meet with his warriors, to leave the wild magic of the night behind. There had been no words, no sound but music, the groans and gasps of love. And still he ached to possess the one who stood before him, who helped him on with his armor, braided his hair, settled the cloak over his shoulders, and looked at him with pride and love. He reached out, gripped the hard shoulder, slipped his hand into the bronze hair. They stepped into one another, the lingering kiss a brief farewell to enchantment. It was more potent than hot wine, a promise in all that was unsaid.  
Then Gil-galad turned and walked from the pavilion.

  
***

  
The years fled by him like autumn leaves. He strove to capture them, those whirling, bloody leaves of years, to tuck them, ablaze with colour, against his heart where they could burn forever. His soul knew his death and prompted him to savor this war, the moments of stillness within it when he could touch, love in every way but the one way, the last, most complete way.

Seven years.

Ash sifted through the air. The sunset was was a banked fire seen through fog. The earth trembled as Orodruin quaked.

"He is there," the prisoner said.

Glorfindel had brought him to the High King's pavilion after a season of brutal struggle in which the Alliance had pushed ever closer to Barad-dûr. There was a look of iron about the Men now, annealed resolve, the Elves were refined to their souls, as lamps which had been slowly unveiled by battle. They would not retreat nor harbor thoughts of truce. There could be none in this war. They all knew that.

Gil-galad sat with Elendil, his eldest son Isilidur, Glorfindel, Tindómion, and Elrond.

"He prepares, gathers his power. He is not in Barad-dûr."

Vanimórë felt him, felt the ring in the place of its forging, saw it upon his father's hand, perilous, beautiful. Sauron's mind was not on him; it was concentrated within himself.

"He has armies encamped from the tower to Orodruin," commented Elendil. "Will he lead them?"

"His way is not the way of battle." Vanimórë pressed his fingers to his temple. It was painful, the feeling of the One Ring on its Master's hand, in the Sammath Naur. It was a heavy weight on the world, a magnet distorting reality, but the Ring itself did not beckon him, it was Sauron who called to him. His wrists were bound with cloth under the manacles, where he had wrenched against them, the metal cutting into his skin.  
"He will send the Nazgûl. All of them." He opened his eyes. "It all hinges on the One Ring."

"Which Sauron wears," Isildur snapped, looking at the prisoner as if he would blame him for this fact.

A smile touched the hard mouth. "Indeed. There is always some little problem, is there not?"

The man rose, tight-faced. "There is too much thou knowest and have not told us! How many lives might have been saved if he had been _made_ to tell us?"

"I will not permit torture!" Gil-galad flashed, and Elendil stepped to his son's side and said, "That was Ar-Pharazôn's way. It will not be ours."

"But it would be Sauron's way, Sire!" Isildur's temper frayed. "Many of our people believe that the thrall should have been _persuaded_ to reveal his secrets! Has he not been close to the Dark One for a long time?

Vanimórë smiled. "He has not broken me. Ar-Pharazôn did not either. Of a surety, thou couldst not."

Isildur lunged forward, was restrained by his father and Glorfindel. He glared fury at the prisoner, who watched him from fearless, unwinking eyes.

"I have said I will not permit it." Gil-galad's declamation came down like a sword-blade between them. "He suffers enough."  
Glorfindel came forward, and two guards escorted Vanimórë from the pavilion.

"He would not have touched thee," Glorfindel said as he poured wine. "This war wears on him, as it does on all of us."

"Whether or no, I would tell him nothing. Sauron would know and bear down on my mind, thou hast seen it."

"Why did he not, just now?"

"His mind is honed to himself and the One Ring, which is why I believe he prepares for a great assault." Vanimórë drank.

Glorfindel came to him, breast to breast, and murmured, "What did thy words mean? Of Ar-Pharazôn?"

"What should they mean?" A lazy smile. A lifting of the brows.

"Do not fence with me!"

"But I _enjoy_ fencing with thee, Golden One."

"Thou wert in Númenor, then? How didst thou escape its destruction?" Glorfindel's fingers pushed into the loose mane of hair, feeling heavy silk. The question came on a breath, its warmth settling on the Vanimórë's lips.

"Sauron sent me away, before its destruction."

"He allowed Ar-Pharazôn to torture thee?"

"Does it matter?"

"Everything matters."  
The words were punctuated by the lazy, heated meeting of their mouths, the tug of fingers at their belts.

"This matters..."

  
***

  
Under the ash-fall, the clouds which rose into mighty black towers, the armor of the Alliance gleamed sullen silver. Trumpets sounded, high and brave in the gloom as their lines began to move, some vast entity made of steel, towards the hordes that surged from Barad-dûr and the lands about Orodruin's feet. Pennons of silver and sapphire, green and gold, red and gentian, silver and sable, raced to meet the onrush of red and black, and strange devices from the east and south, serpents and hawks and charging bulls.

***

_He moved behind Glorfindel like a shadow, slipped his arms about him, fingers playing over the hard chest, flicking gently over the nipples, moving down with the delicacy of a harpist. Glorfindel moaned deep in his throat as one hand wrapped around his aroused length, ran up to the tip, a thumb moving over it tantalizingly. He shuddered, hardened as he was stroked._

_"He will send the Nazgûl, try to break thy lines with fear...know their names, challenge them, they fear the fire of thy souls..."_

_Glorfindel's head tipped back, eyes closing._

_"Mûrazôr. Khamûl."_

_The names came to him through billows of rising pleasure. He felt the iron hard erection against his cleft,moving against him in rhythm to the words, and his blood was a seething weight in his loins._

_"Adûnaphel. Dwar."_

_The pull of the hand, the pressure against his buttocks increased, and he pressed back, a bloom of heat stinging him._

_"Akhôrahil. Hoarmûrath."_

_The tip of an engorged length nudged him and his breath sounded like a storm in his ears._

_"Indûr. Ren. Úvatha."_

_On the last name, he was opened impaled and his moan bled through clenched teeth. _

  
***

  
_Remember their names. Names are power. _

The tide of blackness advanced. Glorfindel could sense the Úlairi, cold spots in a wave of dark heat.

Behind them the archers sent storms of arrows that screamed down into the armies of Mordor, Uruk and wargs and Men. And then they converged, fuming avalanches, clashing with a roar which dinned in the ears, shocked the ground. There was no thought then but to kill, to press on through the smoky air, misted with blood, tramping the dead, their own comrades or enemies.

Glorfindel saw Elves dying, Uruk falling and he was, for a moment, back in the retreat from Gondolin, when the last remnants of his House had been ambushed by orcs. The remembered fury of loss scorched through him, and he killed, each movement lethal, each stroke of his blade taking a life. It was like fighting a landslide of steel and hate. Sauron was throwing all his remaining forces against the Alliance.

He felt blood spray across his face, tasted it bitter in his mouth as he cut his way through the ranks of Mordor. Sarambar howled white light, seeming to burn off the black gore that coated it. He cast a swift glance around, not knowing how much time had passed. To the north Elrond's banner advanced, to his left, Tindómion met his eyes and beyond, Gil-galad's companions gathered about their king as deep horns sounded Mordors retreat.  
He felt as if he had been fighting an Age.

Where were the Nazgûl?

From Elendil's army far down the left flank, he heard trumpets upraised in shrill warning.

And he knew then why Sauron had been willing to waste so many troops, why the Nazgûl had not been here.  
They were with their master.  
He stared toward Orodruin.

  
***

  
_ His movements were slow, each thrust striking fire deep within, but his heartbeat was hard and fast, muscles steel-hard with tension, his breathing half-groan, half-sigh. Each push and withdrawal took Glorfindel further, but the thrall was prolonging this, savoring it, holding himself back._

_"More," Glorfindel heard himself hiss through his teeth, "Go on, damn thee, _Vanimórë!_"_

He did not know why he named the thrall that. It was a Quenya name, _ Beautiful Darkness,_ and it suited. There came a tense, shaken laugh as the prisoner drew out all the way and they went down onto the rug. This time when he was taken, it was without restraint. The slave loved savagely, exquisitely, and Glorfindel was possessed by a dark, sensuous flame.

"Yes," they whispered and, "_Yes!_" as the rhythm became faster, wilder, a battle, a sharing. Golden light intertwined with black until they detonated together, and shook with the force of it.

Glorfindel remembered Fëanor, but the thrall did not want to own him, did not demand his fealty, his whole life. He simply _desired._ Glorfindel had been a feast, but under the enjoyment of something long denied him was a feral passion that was indeed not unlike Fëanor's. Or Glorfindel's own. Sauron had not been able to change his slave's truest nature. Now he lay, half smiling, violet eyes glowing under their fringe of lashes.

"I thank thee," he murmured, and his smile deepened into a flash of white, redolent of satiation.

"Vanimórë."

The husky, half-startled laugh came once more and the thrall rose on one arm.  
"Yes, Golden One?" His tone was teasing, but there was something in his face Glorfindel could find no name for.  
_Vanimórë..._  
He stared and realized that there was no love between them, but there was something. Respect perhaps, an acknowledgment of equality.

"It will be soon."

"On the morrow, I think." The amusement faded. "If it comes to it, have them release me. I would fight."

Drying himself and pulling on his clothes, Glorfindel paused and then nodded.  
"I will leave orders." At the tent flap he looked back, and their eyes met.  
"Until then, Vanimórë."

"Until then, Glorfindel. Remember their names. And I will remember what thou didst name me." He winked.  


  
***

  
The Nazgûl were leading an army yes, one that surrounded Sauron himself. They were guarding the Dark Lord. The forces that had marched from Barad-dûr had been sent to weaken the Alliance and thin their ranks.

Trumpets sang out as the Elves and Men gathered themselves, knowing if they did not they were lost. There could be no rest, no pause. Like a flood of black lava, the Great Orcs poured about the Nazgûl, and the Alliance formed rank.

_ Glorfindel! _ The voice was sharp in his mind, the voice of a warrior, pared of its tinge of self-mockery.

_ I know. _

The impact shuddered down the length of the army as the two forces met, held and began to push back, punching holes in the black-armored host. Their blood hissed high and hot, their wills drove them on in a wave of steel and slaughter, a grinding fury of death. This was the point of destiny and they knew it. The air was choking dust which became a fume of blood, organs of the body exposed and trodden into stinking mire.

Then they were through it, and the orcs who did not retreat lay like windrows of dark wheat behind them.

Down the lower slopes of Orodruin came the wraiths. The chill spread from them: despair, loss of hope. Their cries were filled with malice for anything that lived They existed in a cold place even Glorfindel did not know, some half-world where all there was no redemption, no merciful death.  
They were in Mordor, and their master wore the One Ring, but they seemed driven to the attack, whipped by Sauron's will. They did not run eagerly to meet their foes as did the orcs and wargs. To those who watched, they seemed to gleam pallidly, one moment shadows, drowned corpses, the next mighty and fell, bearing great swords which flickered like marsh-fire.

They strode forward, those who were to meet them, Glorfindel, Tindómion, Baesel, Borin, Elrond, Gil-galad, their swords and eyes blazed through a wash of black blood, shining back at the dark, denying its power. Others came to join them, facing their fear.

_Mûrazôr!_

The wraith-lord halted, black robes swirling in the hot, dead wind.

_Khamûl! _ Gil-galad's mind-voice.

_Adûnaphel! _ Tindómion challenged.

_ Dwar! _ Elrond cried.

_Look at me! _ Glorfindel locked his eyes on those unliving ones, even as the lord of the Nazgûl swung back his huge mace. And Glorfindel was on him like a lion.  
Sarambar ran up to the hilt in the dead throat, and a shock of ice-cold flashed into Glorfindel's hand and arm. He set his teeth, did not know he was shining like a golden star in the murk, all he knew was his own battle-lust, the pain, the rising shriek of the wraith as it sought to pull itself from the sword.

_ Thou canst not kill them with a sword,_ the thrall had said. _ They may certainly be discomfited, but it is thy spirit they will fear. _

"Go into the Dark!" Glorfindel snarled. He raised his foot and kicked out, impacting on hard armor. The wraith lord was slammed backward, still howling, and there was a scent of acid and ice.

  
***

  
The blades rang together and Tindómion pushed forward, locked with the wraith. There was no fear in him, everything burned to ash against the uprush of fire from his soul. He was older than this thing, there was nothing it could do to him which could touch – even begin to touch – the flame within. He disengaged and whirled, hammering his sword into its side. The wraith staggered.

  
***

  
_Aeglos_ caught a glint from the red sky as Gil-galad lofted it in one motion and hurled, running even as it sluiced through the air and struck the wraith full in the chest. It pierced the armor as if it were leather, knocking the Nazgûl from its feet.  
He knew this was the end, but such thoughts could not intrude on the force which drove him to finish this. He grasped the spear – and Khamûl's hand snapped up and closed over his.

There was a bite of unearthly chill, sharp as a dagger, piercing up into his brain. Gil-galad clenched his other hand over the Nazgûl's and set his teeth.

Something flashed in his mind and _Aeglos_ snapped in twain. The High King, off balance, stumbled back, caught himself as Khamûl, hissing in the knife-edged cadences of the Black Speech, began to pull himself away, crawling like a wounded animal.

Pressure descended on Gil-galad's mind, a sense of a great weight, He turned, looked up.

Sauron was armored from feet to crowned head, radiating power so that the air shimmered around him like heat-haze. Below him, massive troll guards tramped, brigandines of metal protecting their huge torsos.

_ Gorthaur! _

_ Ereinion. _

Gil-galad drew Helegon from its sheath.

_ Little king,_ Sauron mocked, in an echo of Gothmog's words to Fingon.

Tindómion cried, "Gil!" There came the sound of weapon crashing frenziedly against weapon.

_ Thy Fëanorion lover calls to thee. He never told thee of Ost-in-Edhil did he? When I gave him the ring which would have made thee ruler of half the world? I touched him, all of him, and he responded, eager as any human trull. _

Gil-galad's eyes burned star-white.  
"He would never touch thee!"

_Oh, but he did, little king, he offered himself to me. _

"_No! _ "

He sprang toward Sauron and the trolls in a fury of steel and wrath, feeling the jar through his arm, the hot gouting of black blood as Helegon's bitter edge sheared into steel and flesh.

_ Hot as his grandsire. He and his father proved most pleasurable._

"Thou liest!" Gil-galad could see nothing now but Sauron, glowing, mocking...

Something punched into his shoulder. Pain exploded around an icy numbness as he was hurled forward. He gathered himself up, his mind concentrating on one thing only: to reach Sauron. To slay him. A troll loomed behind him. He did not see it.  
The creature's massive club shattered bone, flung Gil-galad from his feet as if he were a child's moppet. For a moment he could feel nothing, the spark of his mind lost amid a sea of white agony. Noise surged and retreated like waves. There was something above him, wavering in and out of existance before his eyes, something golden, poisonous.

_ Oh, father..._

Sauron raised his mace. It tangled strange dancing points of light, red and gold. But it did not come down.  
Gil-galad heard the roar of fighting close to him, and Sauron moved, his iron-shod foot cracking ribs as he stepped deliberately upon the high king's chest. Gil-galad felt a cry break from his lips. He coughed. Warm blood spumed from his mouth.

"_ Gil! Gil! _"

_Istelion..._

Men's voices close by. He recognized Isildur's, heard him scream out in grief.

And the world – detonated.~

~~~

~~~


	49. ~ The Beginning Of Night, And The End Of The Light ~

  


**The Beginning of Night and the End of the Light **

  


The noise of battle struck him like a wall. He could untangle the separate sounds within it, metal on metal, the grind of armored bodies meeting, feet kicking up the dust, screams rage or pain, the grunts of exertion, all woven into the rumble of the volcano. He trembled from head to foot, a leashed warhound waiting for the chain to be slipped, and he closed his eyes, feeling with his senses, touching the Elves, the Men, the Nazgûl. His father he did not need to focus on. Sauron's presence was acid-hot against his mind.  
  
_I will not think..._ He hammered down the longing to hope, and read the tides of the battle expertly, felt when the first attack of Mordor was broken, heard the horns bray the signal to retreat.  
  
_ No – this is not..._ His eyes snapped open and burned ember-purple, as he felt Sauron moving. With the Nazgûl.  
  
_ Glorfindel!_  
  
The answer came back, clipped and hard: _ I know._  
  
Had Vanimórë been free, Sauron would have sent him ahead with his nine servants, his chief bodyguard, as he had been in the wars in Eregion. The Dark Lord was no warrior, he had never needed to be; he was Maia, he had crafted the One Ring, and wearing it he was coming forth, believing himself invincible.  
  
Red ran down his hands as he stepped to the flap of the tent. The encampment was almost deserted, save for the wounded, the cooks, the servants and those left to guard them. The two Elves appointed to watch him turned.  
  
"He comes," Vanimórë said calmly.  
  
"Who comes?" Demanded one of the guards.  
  
"The Dark Lord. For the first time in this war, he comes forth himself." He held out his arms. "Release me. Thou hast orders?"  
  
The manacles fell from his wrists.  
The warhound's chain was off. He leaped into a run, straight into the storm of war, unarmed. As he reached the first of the dead Elves he swooped, seizing the discarded longsword without pausing. With a feeling akin to delight, he exploded into the ranks of his father's army, coming down like a hammer, using his body as a weapon of itself, the sword an extension of that weapon, forcing a passage of blood through the orcs.  
  
He saw Glorfindel, sun-bright, facing Mûrazôr, saw Gil-galad's spear pierce Khamûl, saw it snap like an intimation of doom, even as Tindómion met Adûnaphel, a blaze of Fëanorian wrath against which the wraith's unholy powers withered.  
  
He saw his father on the slope above the lumbering troll guard, and saw Gil-galad turn to face him. He heard the tenor of the thoughts which flashed between them, felt the high king's mind flash into fury as he threw himself in all his beauty and strength at the trolls, cutting, hacking in a breathtaking display of lethal skill.  
  
Vanimórë knew why Sauron taunted, knew what he was doing – and that he was succeeding. He ducked under the down-sweep of a huge axe, kicked aside with one foot, and the overbalanced Great Orc tumbled over his back. He whirled and stabbed down with the sword, spun to face another wave boiling down the slope, cutting off the Men and Elves from the high king.  
He fought with a cold, controlled rage which seemed far removed from the slaughter. He was a stream of icy air, very high up, above the heat, the broil of smoke and dust. From that remote elevation, he saw himself maim and kill, watched as Glorfindel, Elrond, and Tindómion hacked their way with that lovely, deadly savagery toward Gil-galad, even as he tried to close the gap himself – and failed.  
  
He watched the spear strike Gil-galad's shoulder, unbalancing him for long enough for the troll to swing his spiked club, for it to impact terribly against the king's back. He saw Gil-galad flung forward brutally and fall at Sauron's feet.  
  
_No! _ his mind cried out, joined with the cacophony of denial, and then he was unable to see anything but the hot pulsation of the One Ring as he fought the wall of orcs closing about him...  
His mind became light, red flame, and was gone. The power that passed through the air, the aether and ripped across Mordor cast the armies to their knees. Only a few heard the cry of rage as Sauron's body and spirit vanished  
  
  
***  
  
  
In the aftermath, even the eruption of Orodruin was muted.  
  
Nothing existed but the broken body, the distance between Gil-galad and himself, his determined crawl across the ground, left leg numb. He did not remember it being struck, only knew it would not carry him, and it was so far. He was so slow. The space seemed to widen, become leagues of blood-soaked ash, rock, fallen bodies.  
  
_ Gil, Gil..._  
  
"_Gil!_"  
  
The eyes which opened in the mask of blood were still stars, but fading now, sinking into a dawn sky.  
  
"He is...gone?"  
  
The effort of speech spasmed pain across his face. Tindómion nodded, reached out.  
"Hush, Gil. Do not speak."  
  
He had seen this before: the terrible last twitching of a body injured beyond any healing. It could not be, it could not...  
  
"Istelion..." Gil-galad jerked and blood plumed from his mouth.  
  
_Gil, do not..._  
  
Tindómion was weeping. He could not bear to see the hurt, this agonized dying. The blue-silver eyes held his. One of the king's hands groped out and Tindómion clasped it.  
  
_ So many memories...I always knew this would come._  
  
_No...Gil. Beloved, no!_  
  
_I would not have lived another life,_ Nárya,_ if it meant not loving thee. _  
  
Tindómion began to shatter as he watched the death of the one he had denied and tempted, desired and loved. Gil-galad's fingers tightened around his.  
  
"Istelion..." A last shudder took him, and through it, Tindómion held him, as his mind cried, _No, no, no more pain, please!_  
  
"Gil..."  
  
And the light went out. The eyes were mirrors, blank as glass.  
  
"**_ No! Gil!_** " Tindómion threw back his head and screamed from his soul; a sound of unassuagable anguish. His head dropped onto the broken breast, and he could not believe it was stilled, that the heart no longer beat, that the lips would never smile, the eyes look at him. It could not be borne, could not be accepted. His spirit could not encompass it.  
  
Tindómion died with his king. He died like his grandsire, his spirit scorched to ash, died like his father, who existed as a form made of memories. He died and was left unburied.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Corumeldir bowed deeply to the lady who sat in state in the great chair, beautiful and as far above him as the stars. She had shown him the letters she received from her son during the years of war, personal messages expressing his sorrow at his treatment of her, telling her that when he came back she would return to the palace and sit upon his council. They held the seal of the high king. ( For did she not know that seal well, and had she not had it copied long ago for just such an eventuality? )  
  
The rider had come secretly to her villa. There would be others, but he was the first. Weary, wayworn, and marked by long war, he told her that Gil-galad was dead, he and many others. Their names flew by her and she waved an impatient hand, the other curled into a fist in the heavy silk of her robe.  
  
"Maglorion?" She snapped.  
  
"He lives, my lady."  
  
She bit her lip and rose. "Go. Rest," she ordered. "I thank thee for thy swiftness."  
  
Backing away, the man bowed and left the chamber. Rosriel stalked to a bellrope and tugged it hard. She clamped her teeth down on her knuckle, then saw that her grip was crumpling her gown and released it, smoothing the fine cloth.  
  
"Fool, thou hast gone into the Void, but that cursed Fëanorion lives! _ Fool!_" And she did not know what Ereinion's last instructions were in the event of his death. But she knew how to get them.  
  
There was a knock at the door and she said to the servant, "Send a message to Corumeldir with all speed. I would speak with him."  
  
The man was a nephew to the castellan, and there were things he was not yet told, though he was trusted, and his uncle was fond of him. One day he had seen Rosriel out riding, and was dazzled by her beauty, felt moved by her sense of abandonment. There was no desire in his feelings, rather there was worship. She was widowed, unreachable. But when he had been sent with letters and news from Gil-galad, he had wondered how the king could exile his own mother. He knew the rumors, and believed them, but it was not for him to judge such as his king and Tindómion Maglorion. Yet seeing her face quiver at one letter, with what, he believed, was tears, he had felt the need to comfort her and said impulsively, "My lady, be not sad. Surely the king loves thee."  
  
He had flushed at the look that had earned him, and silently berated himself, but then she had smiled, a small wavering thing, and murmured: "If only that were true." and beckoned him closer with a jeweled hand.  
"What is thy name?"  
  
"I am Corumeldir, my lady. I have the honor to assist mine uncle, the castellan."  
  
"Ah." She regarded him thoughtfully. "Come, let us sit and take wine. I hear little of doings at the palace."  
  
And so it came to this. He had had reservations, for it was one thing to wholly sympathize with the lady, and another to break into the locked chest where the high king's private documents were kept. But she had shown him the latest letter from Gil-galad, which had spoken of _ "...keeping this matter between us, until I return, I wish thee to best judge what should be done if aught should go ill."_  
  
He did not have a key to the chest, but it took little stealth to acquire it while his uncle took rest one afternoon, and no-one would question Corumeldir entering the high kings private chambers. He found what he was looking for easily enough. There was only one place it must be, in a small box of beaten silver. Corumeldir paused, then took it, tucking it under his cloak and returned to the castellan's chambers. His uncle still slept and the rooms were quiet. Moving silently as mist Corumeldir returned the key and slipped out to the stables, his heart pounding swift and hard in his throat.  
  
Rosriel rose as he entered, but she was not alone. Borniven was with her, Erestor standing a little apart, his face somber, but in the others he saw eagerness, a predatory anticipation which brought him to a halt even as he eased the box from his arm.  
  
Borniven came forward with his hands held out, and Corumeldir stepped back.  
"My lady," he protested.  
  
"Give it to him." Her skirts hushed as she crossed to him and reluctantly, he surrendered it.  
"The key?" she asked sharply.  
  
"I... did not know which it was, my lady, and there was little time."  
  
"I can open it." Borniven turned it in his hands, and Rosriel nodded, her eyes glinting.  
"My thanks. Thou wilt be well rewarded. The fate of the kingdom rests on this."  
  
Erestor left the room, Borniven following him, and Rosriel turned a brilliant smile upon Corumeldir, gesturing to the table where wine and goblets stood.  
"Drink. Thou hast done a great thing this day. And then thou must leave, for this is between us, a matter of state and secrecy."  
  
Uncomfortable, he bowed. "I understand, my lady."  
  
  
***  
  
  
Rosriel's lips drew back from her teeth, her hands spread flat upon the vellum.  
  
"The damned, _damned_ _fool!_"   
  
"Burn it," Borniven said.  
  
"Elrond and Círdan witnessed this!" She flung around, and screamed, "The besotted arse loving...!" She began to tear violently at the creamy material. "He will be lost in the Void like his unholy father!"  
  
Borniven glanced at Erestor. "Did he know? Did the Fëanorion bastard know?"  
  
"I think not." Erestor shrugged as if divorcing himself from the situation. "It will not matter if he did."  
  
"No, there is no proof, and no-one would accept a Fëanorian king! The whole line reeks of doom! The death of Ereinion has only proved it. A pity Maglorion lives..." Borniven was calculating. "This is another chance for thee, my friend."  
  
"I will not take the kingship." Erestor bit. "But nor will Tindómion."  
  
Borniven shot him a curious glance, then gently pried the vellum from Rosriel's hand. As he glanced at it, he spared a moment to feel pleased at his own artistry in copying the high king's hand so credibly. Corumeldir, who was familiar with Gil-galad's writing, had never questioned it provenance. He smiled.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Glorfindel knelt beside Gil-galad. There had been voices raised in argument further away; he heard Elrond, Círdan, Isildur, but his attention was focused elsewhere, upon these two, the dead king, Tindómion.  
  
"Ah, Gil..." He drew Tindómion aside. He could have been dead also, save that his heart still beat. _ And he will wish all the days he lives, that it did not. _  
  
Elves were gathering, weeping unashamedly on this most bitter field of victory.  
  
"Carry the king to his tent," he ordered, and looked away to where another lay, a sword still clasped in his hand, black leather cut and torn and nodded toward the prisoner. "And him."  
  
It was not until they were in the encampment that Elrond and Círdan came to him and told him that Isildur had taken the One Ring – and refused to cast it into the fires of Orodruin.  
  
And by then it was too late.  
  
  
***  
  
  
He knew as soon as his consciousness came back. It descended upon him with a weight he thought would crack open his chest, as his king's had been cracked. It was unendurable. It hurt to breathe, and he did so very carefully as his eyes focused upon a pair above him, ice-blue, powerful, holding aching empathy.  
  
"Bury me with him."  
  
Glorfindel laid a hand on his cheek, the sadness deepening on his stern face.  
  
"He would not want that, Istelion."  
  
"But I am already dead."  
  
He was stiff as marble as Glorfindel drew him into his arms and held him, but through it, his heart increased into a heavy, painful beat until something snapped and a great quiver shook him. He did not weep, grief had scorched away his tears, but he groaned into the golden hair. "I gave him nothing!"  
  
"Thou didst love him," Glorfindel whispered. "He knew it."  
  
"It was not enough."  
  
The glint of bright hair under his eyelids faded, darkness reached out like a lover.  
_Let me lie under the stone and hold him until I go into Night, for I cannot repent of my love before Mandos._  
  
"No. Thou wilt not die, Istelion."  
  
_ No. _ The words seemed echoed by another, a different voice, on the cusp of his hearing.  
  
"Thine oath to find thy father binds thee beyond death, Tindómion Fëanorion."  
  
_ Thine oath...Fëanorion_  
  
The blackness was a foretaste of what awaited him. He faced it with the numb acceptance of bereavement, neither curious or afraid as it swirled about him, drew him deeper, and he realized that even in the Void there would be no peace.  
  
And in that no-place, some-one turned to look at him; a spirit holding to its remembered form in defiance of all that was not, diamond-flame eyes in a swirl of hair darker than the Void about him.  
  
He felt as if that flame entered his own eyes, burned a path like lightning down through his spine, ignited within his spirit. Tindómion raised his head, felt Glorfindel smoothing his hair as if he were a child. The oath he had sworn weighed on him like fetters of lead.  
"Let me see him," he whispered.  
  
Glorfindel drew back and gazed at him, then nodded and rested his brow against the cold white one.  
  
  
***  
  
  
They removed his crushed and dented armor carefully, as if he only slept, exposing the body, black with massive bruising. Only his hands and face were unmarked. They bathed the blood from him, washed it from the silken black hair.  
  
Tindómion had to force himself to look. If he did not _see,_ it would not be real. How could he gaze upon the shell of something he had loved so fiercely for so long and see the soul that motivated it fled, leaving broken bone and flesh?  
  
_He was pacing up the length of the great hall, aware of the eyes fixed on him, misbegot son of a ruined house. He was ready to take offense, feel antipathy for the high king and give his fealty begrudgingly. Then, meeting the blue-silver eyes, his throat dried, heat collected in his loins, branded itself across his face...  
  
"Tindómion Maglorion, I knew thy father, and I grieve for him."  
  
He felt himself say, across the unscrolling banner of years, "My lord, I would offer thee my fealty, my sword, my body and all my service."  
  
"I accept it gladly, son of Macalaurë Fëanárion."  
  
Hands raised him, lips touched his cheek, his brow and his mouth in recognition of kinship. He was lead through to the Hall of Feasts, and seated beside the king, where Gil-galad proferred his own goblet. Tindómion drank and returned it to the king, who raised it. Their eyes clung over the rim. _  
  
His hands were steady as they drew a comb through the wet black hair. There seemed a strange sense of dislocation. Noises came too loud and echoing, before fading under the laboring drum of his heart. Soon – surely – the king would stir, open his eyes and smile, everything understood in that one look between them.  
  
_ He is so pale..._ The white skin held a bluish tinge, the scrolled lips were colorless. Would they warm under his own, part and seek to deepen the kiss?  
  
Methodically, he wove the complex royal braids into the hair, gold thread snaking in and out of the ebony...  
  
_ He was racing along the narrow ridge of the Stormbreaker, leaping to the tongue of rock which jutted over air and water far below, his body and the king's clashing together, naked, heated. The hair – this hair, heavy in his hands, silken and scented, warm against his face.  
  
"Do not do this." A whisper intimate as a lover's. "I know those I choose, I know their hearts. There is nothing thou needst prove to me."  
Tindómion hardened achingly, and the dread of what Gil-galad would think of his unclean desires sent him diving over the edge, into the icy lake...  
  
"I do not see a curse when I look on thee, my friend..." A voice in a soft rustle of flames. "Nárya..." _  
  
He heard himself take a long breath. It choked in his throat. Something was clawing into his soul with a blunt knife and gouging brutally into the wound. The lamplight limned Gil-galad's still face, cast shadows under the high cheeks, the down-swept fringe of lashes.  
  
_ A dim hallway, winter, a mist of rain weeping outside, Gil-galad's hands flat against the wall, his breath sweet against Tindómion's mouth, their roused loins pressing against each other. Almost a kiss.  
  
War...Sauron's forces hammering across Eregion, backing Gil-galad against the line of the Lhûn. Outside the pavilion the wolf-winds of winter drove snow before them and within, his arms came about Gil-galad. He took the king's length in his hand, bringing them both to shocking release.  
  
Lindon. Summer. His own chambers. Both of them naked. His lips closed the tiny gap between them and drank from well of liquid starfire...  
  
The first time, the only time they had truly been lovers, in the dregs of the dream which had racked him with agony and then with pleasure. He had claimed then, burying himself in love, in fire. So glorious, so right. So impossible. _  
  
_Gil..._  
  
He leaned toward the motionless face, and a tress of his hair spilled across it, reddening in the lamplight like a fresh wound. As if its touch might wake the king, he caught it back. But Gil-galad's eyes were closed, and Tindómion's gaze dropped to the terrible bruises below the beautiful, unmarked face, saw the wounds that would never heal.  
  
_ Gil..._  
  
Rage slammed itself through the grief for a moment, fury that Gil-galad had been broken like this, as his father had been, and Fingolfin before him.  
  
_The Doom of the Noldor has never been lifted. Or did I doom him by loving him? _  
  
One breath, which broke in the middle. Another which was blocked by a rock wedged in his throat.  
  
They bound fine linens over the ruin, and they clad Gil-galad in full panoply so that he might lie as warrior king, fallen in battle. They clasped his hands about Helegon and placed the two halves of _Aeglos_ beside him. And when all was done, he lay lapped in light. There was no shadow on his face, and he did indeed seem to sleep in a peace beyond the world. They would carry him to Imladris and lay him in a quiet place beside running waters, under windswept skies.  
  
"Not Lindon?" Elrond had said to Glorfindel.  
  
"No, my friend, let it be Imladris. Many will depart from Lindon."  
  
Tindómion knelt beside his dead king. Glorfindel touched his shoulder and slowly the Fëanorion rose, madness in his eyes, anguish in his face like a torch. He looked around helplessly for a moment, as if unsure of where he was. He stumbled. He could not see. Tears misted his vision, and he felt Glorfindel take his arm.  
  
  
***  
  
  
They carried Gil-galad out and in the silence, under the towering purple-edged clouds, the Elves gathered. The dead were laid about the High King: Basel and Borin, who would have died with Fingon but had come to their deaths here, with his son, Vórimóro and Hinivon, and Aeralagos, son of an ostler, whom had been made a knight-companion in Imladris before the Alliance marched on Mordor.  
  
The Elves of the Havens, the Greenwood and of Lórinand who had fallen were gently placed there, and the ranks of the dead grew like a great flower watered with the tears of the living. All would be carried mournfully to lie under tree, beside stream, or ocean, for the ending of the war of the Last Alliance would be a funerary procession for both the Elves and Men. When the fallen had been looked upon, honored and named they were borne away to begin their last journey.  
  
The clouds released their swollen underbellies. Rain hissed down in a curtain, hard as spears. It bounced from Gil-galad's armor, the last to lie there. Tindómion stepped forward with Glorfindel to raise him, take him back to his tent.  
  
And something changed in the air. An intense pressure brought their heads around; a reek of power. Elrond stood mute and wide eyed. Círdan halted.  
  
The Vala was the greatest of them all since Morgoth's fall, and none save Mandos could be more pitiless. His eyes were cold as the winds across the northern wastes. All of him spoke of the power of the air frozen into implacable judgment.  
"His Doom is pronounced." Manwë's voice crackled like ice. "Dost thou think aught is hidden from us, Fëanárion? He regretted naught, as thou dost not. His soul is forfeit, as is thine when thou dost come to us! For thy unhallowed and unclean coupling, which thou dost dare to call love, Ereinion son of Fingon is judged."  
  
Fire rushed up from Tindómion's guts, burning through his mind, and clearing it of all but the white blaze of fury.  
_"No!"_ he screamed. "Thou hast _ no right !"_  
  
Thunder tore the air asunder, shivered in the ground. Wind blasted the rain aslant. Elrond and Círdan's voices rose, and Glorfindel said, in shining, pulsing wrath: "Thou didst wait for him to die, and come here to – what? _gloat?_ before those who love him?"  
  
"_Gil!_" Tindómion cried. "I _beg thee!_" There was no pride in his voice, only a plea for mercy to those who had none for the breaking of this one law, shut fast behind the impermeable armor of their own untarnished purity.  
  
"He goes to Námo, and thence to the Void. Thou hast doomed him, Fëanárion and when thy houseless spirit does come to us, we will judge thee likewise."  
  
"The _Void?_" Tindómion could scarce find any air to breathe. "Art thou _mad?_"  
  
"Have a care!" The Vala's voice was a blow against his skin, colder than death. "Or thine own offenses will be judged now!"  
  
"There is no offense!" Glorfindel flashed, his words a blade. "There is no sin in love and the Void is not for the Children of Eru!"  
  
"By our Laws he has sinned and his soul is Námo's to judge and ours! But we are not here for thee."  
  
And Tindómion understood, for one blinding moment, why his grandfather had not been cowed by Mandos, had defied the Valar and despised them. In that heartbeat, his sword was out of it's sheath, and his whole body was pressing against something as solid as an iron wall flung down between himself and the Power.  
  
"No! Istelion! Glorfindel!"  
  
A blade beat back his own, he half saw Glorfindel straining against Círdan's hold on him.  
Tindómion's eyes met those holy-pure, uncomprehending ones with hatred and contempt as the Vala said: "Thou wouldst draw weapon upon us? Beware, or follow thy lovers and the accursed ones into eternal Night, those who defied us and slew their own kin and joined their bodies uncleanly!"  
  
The air snapped with cold, pale light, and then all there was left was the plummet of icy rain.  
  
"Carry him in." Glorfindel sounded as if he were choking back violence. "Carry the king in. Istelion!"  
  
There was no response. When he touched the rigid arm he felt, through the chill, the inner fire of his wrath.  
  
"Istelion..." There was nothing to say. The silver eyes focused on his, water streamed over the hard face like tears. Then Tindómion rammed his sword down into the soaked ground and dropped beside it, the rain drenching him, pounding his hair into the mud.  
  
  
***  
  
  
_ I loved him and he is dead, more than dead. I loved him and they have judged him, seen his perceived _ sins..._His soul has been cast out of time itself, as if it were offal, my king, my Star. My undying hate lies on the Valar. But to whom may we appeal? They have made Arda a prison for us, trammeled by laws which we break at our peril.  
  
And I love thee still, Gil-galad. I will hold thy soul within my heart until the End of All Things._ ~  
  
  


  
  


~~~

Here ends _Magnificat of the Damned Book I _

~~

~~~  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Stardust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4730921) by [magnusthecactus (agameoflesmis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agameoflesmis/pseuds/magnusthecactus)




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